


Under the Wide Blue Sky

by zeit



Series: The King [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Knight Derek Hale, M/M, Medieval AU, Royal Stiles Stilinski, Royalty AU, Slow Burn, no love triangles I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22556923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeit/pseuds/zeit
Summary: Crown Prince Stiles returns home after many long months away commanding his father's armies. He doesn't feel he understands the true motives of his enemies, but having ended the battle for now, he turns his attention instead, albeit begrudgingly, to finding someone who might sit at his side someday when he assumes the throne. His childhood affection for Sir Derek blooms anew when the man accompanies his younger sister, Lady Cora, to the capital to be presented as a formal suitor for Stiles's hand in marriage.A tale of war, of duty, and of love.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622995
Comments: 28
Kudos: 130





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a fic idea I've been kicking around for a long time. It's taken many different shapes, and ultimately was shelved for awhile until inspiration struck again. That inspiration was the Netflix film 'The King,' with Timothee Chalamet. Although there are hardly any similarities between this work and the film, do know that there will eventually be a sequel to this work, which will draw from it much more heavily. 
> 
> Anyways, I just wanted to thank you in advance for stopping by to check out this story. Please let me know what you think down below. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As a disclaimer, this is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

The night had been long and cold. Driving sheets of sleet and rain had soaked the camp thoroughly, and Stiles pushed the stiff, frozen canvas of his tent aside to survey his company of soldiers as dawn broke over the valley. The mud beneath his boots crunched and his breath steamed out before him. A thin waft of smoke drifted from the cook tent in the middle of the camp, and men of the third watch, recently relieved, mulled sullenly around small campfires here and there with bowls of porridge balanced in their laps. Stiles rubbed his hands together and quickened his pace. He approached the nearest fire, his body tensed against the chill, and the soldiers huddled there rose and nodded solemnly to him before returning to ease.

“Your Highness,” they each said in greeting. Stiles nodded in return. 

“I’d wish a good morning,” he began, stretching his fingers toward the fire, “but given the night’s weather all I can hope for is a dry one.” A soldier across the flames from him snorted and agreed.

“A bloody miracle nobody froze to death in the night,” another soldier said. Stiles hummed to himself, rubbing his hands together briskly. 

“Has stock been taken of the ill and wounded?” He asked.

“Aye,” the same soldier replied. “The captain was up before first light to rouse them all and give a dose of the good tonic he keeps in his flask.”

Stiles smiled. “I’d expect no less of the man.”

The company’s captain had a penchant for keeping a strong spiced mead on himself at all times. Had he been only half as competent as he was, Stiles may have reprimanded him for the impropriety of drinking as he did, but as it was, Captain Finstock was the wiliest and most successful leader of the Crown’s Royal Army. He looked after his men, and in return, his men trusted him with their lives. Stiles had found himself regularly thanking the gods for Finstock’s unorthodox guile on the front.

The crunch of frozen earth behind him signalled Sir Scott’s arrival and Stiles turned his head to greet him. “Ho, Scott,” he said warmly. “I’m happy to see you didn’t freeze into the bog bed overnight.”

Scott knew better than to bow to his old friend, though he did nod respectfully. “A cold night indeed, but hopefully a warmer day ahead, Your Highness,” he said, smiling with his usual optimism. He settled at Stiles’s side, warming himself in the same fashion until a horn sounded in the distance. The soldiers around the fire climbed to their feet once more as the beat of hooves drew near.

Stiles peered in the direction of the sound as a lone rider appeared. He’d entered the camp from the south, the direction the company was marching, and bore the royal standard on his breast. His face was ruddy with the cold and his eyes tired, but he continued his advance dutifully. 

“Your Highness,” he said as he reached them. “I’ve ridden for three days straight to bring you an urgent message from your father, the king.” He dismounted quickly and rummaged through his saddlebags for a sealed scroll, bowing as he extended it toward the prince. Stiles frowned as he reached out for it and dug his thumb under the wax sealing it closed. It was stamped with the royal sigil. They’d kept his father updated of their position regularly, sending ravens to the capital to keep the crown apprised of their delay. Expected home a fortnight earlier with another week to go at least, the harsh weather had slowed them considerably. Stiles skimmed the letter, then handed it to Scott to peruse. 

“We’re expected at the castle three days from now,” Stiles said in explanation as Scott read through the neat lettering. “Apparently, my father has planned a grand feast to welcome us home. How thoughtful of him to schedule it so far in advance of our arrival.” Scott snorted and returned the scroll to him.

“It sounds as though the feast is in your honor, my prince, rather than the company’s. I doubt the fighting has dulled your father’s interest in finding you your future spouse.” Scott grinned and elbowed Stiles in the side, and Stiles sighed dramatically.

“If it were so important, could it not have waited until we’d already returned?” He asked petulantly. 

Scott shrugged. “I doubt the king expected us to be so delayed. Three days of hard riding with a small party should see us home in time, however,” he suggested.

“Perhaps we should find another war to fight instead,” Stiles said. “I’d find it far more engaging than rubbing shoulders with the like we’ll find there.” 

Scott snickered and extended his hands toward the flames once more. The rider, weary from his journey, gratefully sat before the fire and accepted an offered bowl of breakfast oats from one of the soldiers. “A summons from the king is nothing to ignore, Your Highness. The king impressed upon me the importance of your arriving in time,” he said. “I was told to stop for no one until I set eyes upon you.”

Stiles scowled at him. “While I appreciate your candor, I rather think I know how royal summons’ work,” he replied. The messenger withered under his glare and quickly apologized, begging his forgiveness. Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his lank hair.

“No, no apology is necessary. I appreciate your speed in bringing me this message.” He turned from the fire and gestured for Scott to follow him. “First we’ll find some breakfast,” he said, “and then our squires. And then, I suppose, we make for Beacon Hill with haste.”

+++

As they rode further south, the early spring weather continued to abuse them. The sleet turned to rain, and fat drops stung their faces as they drove their horses onward, churning the ground to mud which sprayed up and buried them under a thick patina of grime. They stopped only to make camp at night and for short periods during the day to let the horses rest while they ate. Their party consisted of a few fleet soldiers, Sir Scott and his squire Liam, and Stiles and his squire Isaac. After slogging back from the border with the army followed by their frenzied rush homeward, they were all exhausted.

On the third day, the city of Beacon Hill appeared on the horizon like the first ray of sun after an endless night. The relief of nearing the end of his journey brought a settled contentedness to Stiles, and he saw the same reflected on the faces of his weary companions. They reached the city walls in the late afternoon and circled around to the merchant’s entrance, so as to avoid riding down the main market street in their sorry states. Still, their arrival was heralded with the blare of trumpets. A detachment of the city guard came down from the walls to escort them through the streets to the castle.

Beacon Hill was a beautiful city. Set upon a low hill and surrounded by rolling farmland, it was truly a beacon to travelers from all directions. It was large, ringed in by two walls, of which the inner stood higher, with a deep moat between them. The houses and shops and manors that filled the walls were cut from either the same pale grey stone as the castle at the crest or constructed from sturdy oak; brightly dyed linen canopies hung over many of the larger streets, shielding those who walked below from the sun, and similarly vibrant drapes fluttered from open windows. Though it was still too early in the year, soon each corner would be hung with baskets of fresh blooms, filling the air with sweet fragrance. Having spent the last ten months fighting back the rebel armies of some minor northern lords, knee deep in muck and mud, cold and wet to the bone, the comfort of the city was palpable to Stiles, and he basked in its warm familiarity. 

Though their party was small and rather woeful-looking from their travels, cityfolk gathered along the edges of the lane to gawk and welcome the crown prince home from the war. Up through the streets they climbed, until finally they came to the outer wall of the castle. More horn blaring signalled their arrival, and they made their way through both the inner and outer walls onto the castle grounds.

They entered through the barracks and dropped off their escorts and squires to rest and make ready for the evening’s celebration, thanking them for their hard riding and diligent service. As they entered the castle proper, two stewards met them enthusiastically.

“Ah, Your Highness!” The first said, bowing deeply at the waist. Two young servant boys waited just behind each of the stewards holding buckets of water and rags. “They city guard sent notice of your arrival, and we’ve been eagerly awaiting you. If you’ll please follow me, we’ll have you cleaned up and ready for the feast promptly.” He looked Stiles and Scott up and down, sniffing disdainfully at their disheveled appearances. He snapped once and the serving boys jumped to attention, then turned to lead Stiles to his quarters.

“Oh joy,” Stiles said tiredly. Scott gave him a weary grin and a jaunty wave and followed the second steward off toward his own apartments on the second floor. Stiles trudged along behind his own steward as the man caught him up on the guests invited to the feast. 

“... the Mahealanis have sent Sir Daniel, heir to the Mahealani estates, to represent them from their island home. He arrived four days ago with his retinue of attendants. Lady Lydia arrived only yesterday, with her father and several other lords and ladies of their region. She’s caused quite a stir already with the local courtiers, as one may expect…” 

Stiles only half-listened as he walked. He concentrated more on avoiding the expensive and expertly woven rugs that lined the stone passageways. His boots left thick prints of mud as he walked, and more muck dripped from his clothing and hair. The serving boy lagged behind them, dutifully mopping up his tracks. Although Stiles knew the castle better than anyone, he followed behind the steward as he was led along a more convoluted path to his chambers than he would’ve liked, apparently avoiding any encounters with their noble guests.

“...delegation from Argenta, even, including Princess Allison. She arrived two nights ago, and has spent much of her time visiting with her aunt. The Hales have sent representatives from Treskellia as well, of course, and although Duchess Talia was unable to attend, I’m told she sends her warmest regards. In her stead, Sir Derek has traveled with his sister, Lady Cora, to attend tonight’s celebration.”

Stiles had no time to voice his surprise at Derek’s name being mentioned when they turned a corner to ascend a back staircase to the next floor and, as if by divine intention, ran quite literally into Lady Cora and Sir Derek. Stiles flailed as he backpedaled from Sir Derek’s broad chest, mud flicking about, and caught his balance on the banister. He thanked the gods when he looked Derek over and found he’d left no trace of mud behind in his clumsiness; Derek had instinctively put his hands up in surprise, guarding himself and his crisp iron-gray doublet from Stiles’s mess. Derek and Cora both looked at him with wide eyes and raised brows, absorbing his pitiable state with shock before quickly recovering and bowing in deference.

“Your Highness,” Cora said with a sly smirk.

“Prince Stiles,” Derek said, more respectfully, wiping his hands together to rid them of the dirt. Stiles’s steward plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him, and Derek accepted it with thanks to clean his hands.

“Lady Cora, Sir Derek,” Stiles replied, smiling at them. “I’m happy as always to see you both in such excellent health.” He faced Derek once more. “I was surprised when my steward mentioned you’d be attending. I take it your trip home from the frontline went rather smoother than mine.” He gestured to his own filthy appearance by way of further explanation. Cora snickered, though she hid it daintily behind one slender hand. Derek raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“It would appear so, Your Highness. Our army had a shorter trip home from the front, and the road from Treskellia was kind to us. We must have missed whatever… calamity befell you.” He looked Stiles up and down pointedly, and Stiles, for once, was thankful for the mud covering him, hoping it hid the faint warmth he felt at the gaze. 

“Oh no calamity, my good sir, this is simply the fickleness of the changing seasons. I haven’t seen a day without rain in near a month.” Stiles’s steward cleared his throat politely, eager to continue up the stairs. Stiles ignored him.

“Which god did you anger,” Cora asked playfully, “for him to bring down the full wrath of the heavens upon you in such a manner?”

“Probably all of them,” Stiles replied lightly. “And wrathful they were. Our company was markedly delayed due to the sleet and freezing temperatures. We had many wounded and sick as well, and the prisoners we took did not exactly hurry southward to aid our progress.”

“Yes,” Cora responded, “your delay has been the talk of the castle since we arrived. I’m sure your vassals and courtiers will be relieved once word of your safe return has spread.” Stiles’s steward cleared his throat again, a bit louder this time.

“I should hope so. We left the full company behind and rode hard to make it in time for the feast,” Stiles explained, “and I cannot express how eager I am to be rid of this muck. If you’ll please excuse me, I have a month’s worth of grime to scrub off.” 

Cora wrinkled her nose and Derek chuckled as they stood clear of the stairs to allow Stiles and his steward to pass. On the landing, Stiles was suddenly struck by a thought, and he rushed to poke his head back around the corner, just catching sight of Derek and his sister as they continued on their way.

“Sir Derek,” he called after them. Derek turned and looked back in Stiles’s direction, taking half a step closer. 

“Yes, my prince?” He asked. 

Stiles grinned at the title. Most other nobles and all of the serving staff referred to him as _Your Highness_ , but Derek had always called him _my prince_ , and Stiles found he rather liked the way it sounded rolling off Derek’s tongue.

“How long will you be staying here in the capital?”

“Until just after the mid-spring festival,” Derek replied. “My mother’s birthday is not long after, and she’ll expect us home in time to celebrate.”

“Oh, of course,” Stiles replied, feeling giddy at the prospect of spending so many weeks with his favorite nobles. “Well in that case, I hope you enjoy your stay.” He threw Derek a quick wave and returned to his steward, who waited for him with his arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently.

They continued up until they reached the third floor where Stiles’s chambers were located. Another wave of relief washed over him as he crossed the threshold of his bedchamber, and he looked to his feather bed with deep longing. Two more servants waited inside the room for him, however, so instead of throwing himself into the bedding as he so desperately wished, he allowed them to help him from his ruined riding clothes and into the waiting wash basin. 

He sunk into the steaming water, feeling the heat of it sink into him, warming him properly for the first time in months. Although the fighting at the border may not have been all out war, it had taken time to drive the rebel army back to the castle of the lord who commanded them. They’d laid siege to it, bombarding it with projectiles and blockading any fresh supplies from reaching it, while Derek led his mother’s army on another front against a different rebel faction. They’d been in contact here and there via raven, keeping each other apprised of their situations, ready to send aid if necessary. Derek’s forces hadn’t required assistance, however, so Stiles was able to focus his attention to breaking the siege. Still, it had taken months to receive a full surrender and take the lord prisoner, for transport back to the castle and eventual execution for the high crime of treason. The army itself had consisted mostly of hired mercenary companies and sellsword bands, eager to protect the coin they’d been promised, the lord in question having too few vassals himself to rally a full army of his own. Where he’d gotten the coin for such an army, well that was a question Stiles longed to know the answer to. By the time he’d left his company behind, Stiles had yet to persuade an answer from the man. There were other things about the border skirmishes that did not sit right with Stiles as well, but here, home in the castle with warm water up to his chin, he blissfully put it from his mind.

An hour later, Stiles found himself properly bathed and perfumed and coiffed for the first time in months, dressed in finery he almost didn’t feel accustomed to anymore. He wore a thick quilted doublet of sumptuous midnight blue velvet, with silvery sleeves and silver clasps down the front. His pants were a rich black, as were his leather boots. Against the wishes of his steward, he tucked his favorite dagger into one of his boots. 

“I go nowhere without it,” Stiles explained as the steward protested. 

“Highness, with all due respect, this feast is in your honor. There will be no violence to contend with, I assure you.”

“I have been assured as such before,” Stiles said, relacing his boot to conceal the blade more easily, “and yet, I’ve still needed it.” 

The steward sighed, exasperated, but declined to press further. Instead, he busied himself with readying the final pieces of the prince’s ensemble: a thick gold ring set with the royal sigil, a heavy broach bearing the royal colors, and lastly, a simple coronet made of a single loop of gold, twisted once to form a small peak at the middle. He slid the ring onto Stiles’s right little finger, then attached the broach to the breast of his doublet. He took more care placing the coronet, ensuring it sat perfectly centered atop the prince’s hair. Stiles sighed, peeved, and waved his hands about to hurry him along, but the steward resisted.

“My prince, nobles from across the country - beyond, even, - have traveled here to greet you tonight. It is important you make a lasting impression as a dignified and elegant heir apparent. You could meet your future king or queen consort tonight,” he chastised. Stiles grimaced. Since he’d come of age, his father, King Regent John Stilinski, had increasingly pushed Stiles to consider his future, eager for his son to take up his mother’s mantle and replace him as the rightful king. Although the turbulence at the northern border was a nasty and brutal business, his three campaigns there to restore peace had allowed him to avoid such a responsibility. Now, he supposed, his father was becoming impatient.

“Or perhaps I will not,” he retorted irritably. The attendant frowned at him, smoothing his hands over the prince’s shoulders and minutely adjusting his tunic. 

“Well I should hope you do, Highness, else the most eligible of Beacon’s suitors might not find themselves available for you choosing anymore. You are not the only eligible bachelor in the kingdom.”

“But I am the only royal one,” Stiles replied glibly, inspecting himself in the mirror and turning side to side. He certainly looked the picture of royalty. He almost didn’t recognize himself in the mirror. Cleanliness after months of rough living would do that, he supposed. He sighed and turned back to the steward, fidgeting with the high collar of his doublet.

“Alright then, let’s get this over with already.”

“Your father will be waiting to speak to you before the feast begins. I’ll show you to the antechamber where he awaits you.”

Stiles followed the steward from his chambers and they walked to the opposite end of the floor, towards his father’s rooms. To the side was a private staircase, which led to an antechamber behind the great hall. At the bottom, the steward pushed open a heavy oak door and stood aside to let the prince pass. Inside, standing against the fireplace with his back to the door, stood King John. He wore the formal fur-edged cloak of a sitting monarch draped across his shoulders, the rich crimson velvet cast blood red in the firelight. The gold-set jewels of his crown glimmered as he turned at the sound of their entry, and at once his face broke into a wide grin and he approached them quickly.

“My son!” He said in cheerful greeting. He held his arms open and Stiles sank into his welcoming embrace gladly, elated to see his father again. “Thank the gods you’ve returned safely to me, once again.”

“Father,” Stiles greeted, smiling. The king stepped back and held him at arms length, inspecting him.

“My messenger said you arrived in a sorry state indeed, though I’m happy to see you’ve been dutifully taken care of,” he said. “You cut a fine figure, my son.”

“I should hope so,” Stiles replied, adjusting his doublet. “I feared you’d banish me if I showed up to the feast fresh from the ride, dripping mud on all your gathered nobles.” 

The king chuckled and draped his arm around his son’s shoulder, leading him closer to the fire. This fireplace was the largest in the castle, and, open on both sides, served both the antechamber and the great hall beyond. Through the roaring flames, Stiles could see the high table as servants scurried to and fro, setting it for the feast. Beyond the raised royal dais, Stiles could just see the first nobles arriving at the far end of the hall. Faint notes of music drifted down from the minstrel’s gallery above the screens passage through which the guests entered.

“They’re not just _my_ nobles, Stiles,” the king said gently. “They are yours too, and someday they will address you as their king, my son. With the border matter settled for the moment, it is time for you to return to your obligations. Many of the lords and ladies here tonight have traveled great distances to attend, and will formally present their sons and daughters for your consideration.”

“Yes, yes,” Stiles said, waving his hand dismissively. “Choose a betrothed, court them for an appropriate time, marry, and produce a royal heir. I understand my obligation fully.”

The king frowned and turned toward his son. “Stiles,” he said, looking his son in the eye, “I care less about an heir at the moment than I do for your happiness. My greatest hope--”

Stiles frowned at him. “Then why do you push me to marry so strongly?” He asked, interrupting. They’d had this conversation before, and Stiles already knew what the answer would be. The exhaustion of his travels, however, had dulled his mood and made him cantankerous.

The king sighed. “My son, you are the crown prince of a large and powerful kingdom, your late mother’s only heir. It is expected of you, not just from me, but from the kingdom as a whole. You are twenty-one years old now, three years past the age your mother was when I was betrothed to her. Three years past the age of the last several monarchs to sit on this throne.” He gestured to the fireplace and Stiles looked through it to observe his father’s seat of honor. Beyond the royal dias, the room had begun to fill, and the vague chatter of smalltalk and exchanged pleasantries filtered through the flames toward them. “Your campaigns to the north have delayed an official courting period, and the kingdom has noticed. Now they eagerly await your return, hoping to put their own kin at your side. You cannot put this off any longer.”

Stiles stared down at the stone hearth defeatedly. He knew it was his duty to the kingdom to display an air of stability and gentility, but still, he found the idea of formal pursuit somewhat bleak.

The king sighed and turned to face him, placing both hands on his shoulders to look at him seriously. “As I was saying, however, before you so rudely interrupted me,” he began, giving Stiles his best fatherly look, his eyes gentle. “My greatest hope is that you find a match that is not only good for this country, but good for you, my son. I hope you find a love like your mother and I shared.

“Now come,” he continued, once again wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders, “The time to celebrate your safe return has arrived; let us join our gathered friends beyond. With good cheer,” he added, glancing at Stiles’s sullen expression. Stiles plastered on his most ostentatious smile, grinning cheekily at his father. The king sighed and shook his head, leading his son toward the door.

+++

Derek entered the great hall with Cora’s arm linked through his own. The air was festive, filled already with music and laughter as the gathered nobles greeted each other and reminisced. The great hall here at the capital was larger than the one at the Treskellian palace, and grand in its scale and design. Three times as long as it was wide and with a high, vaulted ceiling, it was lined with ornately carved tables on each side, with a cleared space down the center for dancing after the feast. At the far end stood the royal dais and the high table, where Prince Stiles and King John would dine. A huge fireplace sat behind it, with an intricately hewn mantle and the royal coat of arms hanging above it. Rich tapestries hung to either side. Three more fireplaces were spaced along the right hand wall, with an inconspicuous door set into an alcove which led to the kitchens. Beautiful stained glass windows were set into the stone above the fireplaces, and a multitude of golden lanterns sat twinkling on a high ledge that ran around the circumference of the room. Three heavy chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting the room with a warm, bright light.

Derek led his sister down the length of the room, stopping periodically to nod graciously at the nobles who greeted him. Although his family were subjects of the crown, Treskellia comprised almost the entire northern third of the country and functioned near autonomously. The Hales were descended from an ancient royal line themselves, and their Duchy was the wealthiest in the kingdom. As such, he’d been instructed by his mother, Duchess Talia Hale, to escort his sister to the capital as a suitor for the prince. A match between the Hales and Stilinskis hadn’t happened in generations, and Talia hoped to remind their rebellious northern neighbors of their power and influence by placing one of her heirs on the throne. 

“Ah, you must be Sir Derek.”

Derek turned at the mention of his name, his eyes finding the owner of the feminine voice which spoke it. A tall blonde woman approached him gracefully, her tight-fitting satin gown showing off her figure quite nicely. Derek frowned. 

“My lady, I apologize; you have me at a disadvantage. Please grace me with your name,” he responded. The woman smiled, and it struck Derek as a very sharp thing. 

“Princess Katherine of Argenta,” she replied smoothly, extending her hand. Derek took it gently, and bowed shallowly over it. “I’m pleased to see you’ve returned safely from the war,” she continued. ”I’ve heard songs of your valor sung here in this very hall.” 

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve been told the Argents sent a member of the royal family to serve as ambassador. It’s a pleasure to meet finally you, Princess.” Derek frowned, suddenly unsure. “Or, rather, Ambassador? I’m not sure which title is most appropriate,” he admitted. 

Cora glanced between them and rolled her eyes, which caused Princess Katherine to narrow her own. Cora slipped her arm free and floated away. Derek steadied himself with a deep breath as he watched her go, then turned to face Katherine, respect and decorum preventing him from making a similar escape. 

Princess Katherine laughed graciously, waving a hand to dismiss the issue. “Although I reside here in an official ambassadorial role, I do prefer my title of ‘princess.’ Without it, I fear the locals would forget the respect I’m owed,” she said haughtily.

Derek grit his teeth and tried for a polite smile. Hailing from the kingdom of Argenta, a rather isolated land beyond the Silver Mountains in the west, Princess Katherine was third in line for the throne behind her brother, Crown Prince Christopher, and his daughter, Princess Allison. Her father, the ancient King Gerard, was rumored to be in ill health, though little information on the status of the country filtered down from the mountains. The Argents had made a number of overtures toward Beacon in recent years, including Katherine’s ambassadorial role to the capital as well as a few tentative efforts to ally with Treskellia. Duchess Talia, of course, despised the Argents and their country, and if the rest of Argenta was anything like Princess Katherine, Derek could understand why.

Katherine, apparently tired of waiting for Derek to respond, cleared her throat and continued. “I hear the fighting in the north has abated, somewhat.”

“Yes, Princess,” Derek answered. “The royal army laid siege to the Myers estate, breaking it in the fifth month. Our own forces pursued another faction further north, eventually claiming victory after a number of hard-fought battles. For now, peace has been achieved.”

“Yes, for now,” the princess agreed. “It’s a wonder King John is able to keep his throne with all the uprisings in recent years. It seems only a matter of time before some other faction springs up.”

Derek frowned at her words, but before he had the chance to formulate a response, a door at the far end of the hall opened and the heralds standing in each of the far corners raised their horns in tandem and blew a few short notes to command the attention of the gathered guests. Derek nodded again to Katherine, murmuring a quick, “Please excuse me, princess,” in farewell before turning and continuing on to his seat as others around him did the same. Cora elbowed him as he slid into his chair.

“And just what was that about?” She asked, whispering to him from the corner of her mouth. 

Derek shrugged. “Gods know,” he answered. 

The heralds trumpeted again and everyone in the room rose to their feet as their sovereign entered the room. Seated most closely to the royal dais, Derek had to turn to face the royals, and found himself flabbergasted when he did. King John, as always, appeared stately and respectable with his rich cloak and ornate crown. Prince Stiles followed a step behind the king, and Derek almost couldn’t believe that this prince was the same who’d almost knocked him down the stairs an hour before. Now, instead of a thick coating of grime, the prince was dressed in a flattering deep blue doublet and black pants that accentuated his long legs. His own royal regalia was much simpler than his father’s but caught the light as he walked to stand at his father’s right hand. He held his head high, and Derek couldn’t help but notice the sharp cut of his jaw as he looked over the hall.

The Hales and Stilinskis had enjoyed generations of close allyship. Derek and his siblings had spent half their childhood at the royal castle, learning from Stiles’s own tutors and training with the royal guard. His own uncle, Sir Peter, even served on the Kingsguard. Stiles, in turn, had spent half of his own childhood at the Treskellian estate. Always bringing along his companion Scott, the sole heir to the honorable McCall house, Stiles had been a rambunctious and unruly child, and had taken particular delight in harassing Derek as they grew. Derek, for his part, had been a serious boy, dedicated to his studies and his dream of knighthood, and had mostly tried to avoid his antics. He’d always maintained a healthy respect for the prince and a certain level of friendship, but they’d never been particularly close. Derek had become a page at the age of ten, then a squire at fourteen, and by the time he was knighted at the young age of seventeen, his encounters with the prince had become few and far between. Stiles had followed his own path to knighthood, though as a prince could not be formally inducted, but on the frontlines over the last three years they’d only seen each other in passing, as there was scant time for pleasantries or personal matters. Derek tried to recall the last time he’d seen Stiles in such a formal setting, and realized it must’ve been at the prince’s fourteenth birthday celebration. 

He’d gifted the prince an ornate dagger, the short sharp blade inlaid with silver filigree in the shape of a wolf head, the sigil of the Hales, on one side, and the crown’s coat of arms on the other. At the time, Stiles had been a lanky teen, his hair cut short for simplicity’s sake, his face dotted with spots and beauty marks and his voice cracking periodically when he spoke. Now, though, Derek stared up at a fully grown crown prince, who seemed sure of himself and his station. He tried not to gawk at him the way his potential suitors were.

“Friends, family, honored guests,” the king began, spreading his arms wide as his voice carried out clearly into the room. “I am pleased you all could join us, for tonight we celebrate the safe return of my son, Crown Prince Mieczyslaw.”

Applause erupted in the hall, and Derek clapped along with the rest of the gathered nobles. Stiles bowed his head graciously, smiling brightly at those gathered below. The king waited for the noise to settle before continuing. 

“Tonight we also mark the beginning of the prince’s period of formal courting. I am honored that so many have journeyed here for his consideration.”

Stiles ducked his head bashfully, a blush spreading across his refined features. A few titters and jeers rose from the crowd, and the king grinned. 

“But enough of words, let us feast!”

On cue, the minstrels in the gallery above the entrance struck up a jaunty tune. Servants scurried forward to pull out Stiles’s and King John’s chairs, and they sank into them neatly. Derek and Cora, along with the rest of the gathered nobles, followed suit. The kitchen door opened and a savory smell wafted into the hall as more servants filed out, carrying trays laden with cooked meats and roasted vegetables. Serving girls with jugs of wine followed and dispersed through the room after first serving the high table, filling each goblet they passed with the finest wine from the royal cellars. The music was quickly joined by the clamor of dinnerware and the din of pleasant conversation and laughter. 

The meal was delicious. Derek cleared his plate, savoring the rich flavors of his roasted pork and fresh vegetables, then readily accepted a second helping. The wine was full-bodied, and Derek felt a pleasant buzz as he finished his second goblet. Scott and his mother, the royal physician Lady Melissa, had joined their table, and Derek felt at ease, surrounded by his retinue here in his home away from home, talking and laughing gladly with Cora and Scott and the others seated nearby. 

As the feasting wore down, those who had finished dining found partners and occupied the dance floor, swinging around to a merry jig. Others drifted up to the high table, and Derek watched as one noble lord after another bowed deeply before the royals and presented their potential suitors to Stiles. A servant had cleared the prince’s plate, and Derek watched as he cordially received each guest, nodding and smiling and thanking them for their presence. From their close proximity to the high table, snippets of conversation reached them. Derek smiled into his goblet as he overheard Stiles explaining to a befuddled noble why he elected not to use his given name in daily usage. The noble apparently couldn’t grasp why a crown prince would willingly ask his subjects to call him by a nickname. A short while later, Cora elbowed him in the side again, and looked between him and the high table pointedly.

“So are you going to present me up there or not?” She asked.

Derek glanced back up at the dais as the most recent noble lord retreated down the steps, his blushing daughter on his arm. He’d felt so relaxed that he’d almost forgotten his mother’s purpose for sending them. He set down his goblet and sighed.

“Of course,” he replied, dabbing at his mouth and beard with his napkin. He pushed his chair back and stood, then helped Cora do the same and offered his arm once more. She hooked hers through his and Derek led the way up to the dais where he bowed deeply as Cora curtsied, holding out the velvet skirt of her forest green gown.

“Your Majesty,” Derek began, looking at the king as he straightened. “I thank you for inviting us to the capital. Your hospitality has been greatly appreciated, as always.”

The king nodded at them and smiled. “Sir Derek, Lady Cora, it is my pleasure to host you, as it always has been. Your family have been steadfast friends and allies for generations, and especially recently with this business in the north, and I humbly thank you for your attendance.”

Derek bowed again at his words, then turned his attention toward Stiles. Up close, and with his sense of propriety dulled a bit by the wine, the prince’s beauty was harder for Derek to ignore. 

“My prince,” Derek began, regarding him seriously. Stiles’s lips quirked up as he leaned forward in his chair and stared back, his honey eyes sparkling, and Derek looked away toward Cora, finding the gaze rather intense. “It is my deepest pleasure to present to you my sister, Lady Cora.” Cora curtsied again, and Derek hardly registered the way Stiles’s mouth had flattened back out slightly. “My mother, Duchess Talia Hale, regards our family’s relationship with the crown as precious and dear, and hopes a union between our houses will further unite the country.”

King John grinned, obviously pleased that the Hales had provided a suitor. He looked to Stiles to gauge his reaction, and who, Derek now noticed, appeared rather tired behind his polite facade.

“Lady Cora, it is an honor to consider you as a potential partner in marriage. Your family has been an extension of my own throughout my life, and I can think of no finer house in the land to join with. It has been some time since last we saw each other, and I look forward to getting to know the fine young woman you’ve grown to be in the coming days and weeks. I hope you find your stay pleasant, and my company tolerable.”

Cora smiled and laughed lightly, charmed. “Prince Stiles, I’ve always found your company far more than just tolerable, though I do look forward to spending more time together. Actually,” she said, pausing and turning slightly, looking over her shoulder towards the floor below, “if you’d care to start now, I would love to dance.”

Stiles smiled more genuinely and rose from his chair. He walked around the end of the table and extended his hand to Cora, who freed her arm from Derek’s to accept.

“You must’ve known this is one of my favorite songs,” he said playfully. Cora laughed and gave some response, but Derek had turned back to the king.

“My mother said she would send a raven, but she also asked me to convey her deepest regrets in not being able to attend,” he said.

The king nodded understandingly. “She did send a letter, and explained her absence. I sent one back assuring her that while she would be missed, I completely understood and would take no offense. There’s hardly anything your family could do to cause us true offense, anyway.”

Derek smiled at him. “She’s hoping by the end of spring the army will be fortified with fresh recruits. I would’ve overseen their training and preparation myself as commander of her forces, but given the tensions in the region, she asked me to accompany my sister’s retinue with a small contingent of other, trusted soldiers to ensure her safe passage.”

The king smiled genially and waved his hand. “Relax, my boy, you need offer no explanation. I just hope that your stay here is restful. If your time on the front was anywhere as exhausting as I know my son’s was, you’ve earned it.”

Derek bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He descended the dais steps and returned to his seat. In the center of the room, a great number of the nobles were now dancing with most of the others either watching from the edges or engaged in conversation, still at their tables. Derek watched as Stiles and Cora twirled together in time to the upbeat tune floating down from the minstrel’s gallery. Stiles’s grin was much more genuine now as he led Cora through the steps. He fumbled once, nearly stepping on her toes, laughing as the edges of his ears reddened. Derek grinned. Stiles had always been clumsy; with how different and grown he seemed now, it was strangely reassuring to Derek to see some of his old boyishness lurking below, and a strange, unfamiliar sense of longing lodged itself firmly in his ribcage. 

“Care for a dance?” Said a familiar voice. Derek turned and once again found Princess Katherine approaching him. He grimaced without thinking, and quickly tried to hide it behind a polite smile. 

“I’d embarrass us both, unfortunately,” he replied. Katherine shrugged and smiled at him. 

“I thought knights were trained in all courtly ways, not just with the sword.”

“True enough,” Derek conceded, “but my attention in recent years has been focused primarily on the latter. I fear any steps I’d take to a tune would be woefully out of time.”

Katherine laughed, brushing against his arm as she settled next to him. “You’re just rusty. Like a sword without a whet stone, a man dulls without use.” 

Derek shifted, not entirely sure what to say. Katherine looked out over the dancing and hummed along with the music to herself. Without looking at him, she said, “I asked around about you, you know.”

Derek quirked his eyebrow, curious. “Oh?”

She glanced at him before returning her attention to the floor. “It’s true, you know. They really do sing songs of your valor. The prince’s too, of course. But I have to confess, your songs piqued my interest the most. I’ve wanted to meet you for quite some time.”

Derek struggled to think of something to say. Finally, he settled on asking, “And what do you think, now that you have?”

Katherine turned to look at him, trailing her eyes down from his face to the toes of his boots and back. “You’re far more handsome than the songs say,” she said finally. Derek felt his face begin to burn. “Though I did expect your voice to be deeper.” 

Derek chuckled at that. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint, Princess.”

“Oh, I am far from disappointed, Sir Derek. In fact, I’d rather like to get to know you more. From my inquiries, it seems you’ve spent little time here in the capital in recent years.”

Derek shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “As I mentioned, I’ve been rather engrossed in recent years with the--”

Katherine waved a hand and interrupted him. “Yes, yes, with the war, I know.”

“--but I plan to stay until mid-spring, at least,” Derek finished.

“I see,” the princess said, smiling. “I’m sure your sister will be spending as much time with the Prince as possible during your stay, which should leave you with plenty to spare. I wonder - the Prince may have entered a courting period, but what about yourself?”

Derek’s brows knit together, surprised by her forwardness. “Uh,” he said dumbly, not sure how to proceed. “I actually have no plans to formally court anyone at this time, Princess. After the spring festival, I plan to return home to Treskellia to further prepare our armies.”

“Is the war the only thing on your mind?” The princess asked testily. Derek didn’t answer, and Katherine was quiet for a moment before continuing. “I understand you weren’t always so preoccupied. I was told you once had a betrothed. Her name was Paige, if I’m not mistaken?”

Derek frowned, uncomfortable with the subject. A long moment passed. “Yes, Princess,” he said slowly. “Lady Paige Krasikeva. We were betrothed to be wed a few summers ago. Her illness and subsequent passing were a shock and a great sadness to everyone.”

“Yes, I imagine it must have been quite a distressing time,” Katherine replied lightly. “But still, I’d thank her, if I could, for leaving you available for another, perhaps more regal, suitor.” She smiled up at him meaningfully, but a weight had settled in Derek’s stomach, cold and solid, and he decided he’d rather be anywhere else than standing at Katherine’s side. He smiled tightly back at her. A short ways away, Derek noticed Sir Scott talking animatedly to another young knight, and he seized onto the opportunity to escape. 

“Sir Scott!” He called, feigning enthusiasm. Scott looked to him and smiled brightly, beckoning him over. Derek turned back to Princess Katherine. 

“Please excuse me, Princess. I have enjoyed our conversation, and I wish you a pleasant evening.”

“As have I,” she replied easily, though Derek thought he could detect a cold disappointment in her voice. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

Derek stayed close to Scott’s side for a long while as the night wore on, always keeping Katherine in his periphery. He desperately wanted to avoid another interaction with her. He’d relayed his awkward encounter, and Scott had howled with laughter and disbelief, though he commiserated as well.

“Yes,” Scott said easily as Derek finished describing the ordeal. “I’ve heard she can be quite the handful.”

“She’s more than just a handful,” Derek replied, sipping at his wine. “And I’d rather lose both my hands than to suffer her presence again.”

Scott chuckled again and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just glad she chose you instead of me,” he confided. Then he looked over his shoulder quickly and leaned in closer to Derek. “Honestly, it’s her niece that I’d be interested in.”

Derek glanced in the same direction Scott had. Still seated, Princess Allison was sitting on the opposite side of the room from where Derek had begun the night. She was very pretty, with long wavy locks held back from her face with a few elegant braids, a dainty tiara balance above them. Her face was pale and finely structured, her smile as bright as the sun as she conversed with another knight Derek did not recognize. She had been one of the first to greet Stiles up on the raised dais, presented by her aunt, but since then she’d stayed at her table, avoiding attention. 

“Perhaps you should go up there and say so then” Derek suggested. Scott looked at him with wide eyes, horrified.

“Have you gone mad?” He asked, peering at him. Derek shrugged.

“Not last I checked,” he replied. “But it seems the way in Argenta is to be as forward as possible.”

Scott squinted at him, then looked back towards Princess Allison, then sighed. “It’s no use,” he said forlornly. “What could a princess like her want with a foreign knight like me? Besides,” he added, “she’s here for Stiles, not me.”

“You can’t know that until you talk to her,” Derek admonished, finishing down the last of his wine. A passing serving girl quickly refilled it. Scott looked pensive for a long moment, then tossed back the last of his own wine. 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to ask for a dance,” he said hopefully, staring wistfully at the dark haired beauty. Derek smiled and clapped Scott on the shoulder in solidarity. 

“Godspeed, my friend,” he said, pushing Scott in her direction. Scott took a few steps, then turned and grinned widely at Derek. Derek smiled back and lifted his goblet in good luck , shaking his head. Just then, Princess Katherine floated back into his view, and Derek turned quickly around and made for cover. He settled in next to the fireplace at the far end of the hall nearest the entrance, and leaned against its warm stone mantle, sipping at his wine as he observed the activity of the room. In the distance, he saw Scott approach Princess Allison’s table and greet her with a bow. Although he could not hope to make out their words from this distance, whatever Scott said made Allison smile widely and giggle, dimples appearing on her fair cheeks. After another few exchanges between them, she stood and accepted his outstretched hand and allowed herself to be led to the dance floor, blushing faintly. Derek smiled again and then sighed, thinking back to Katherine’s words. 

_The Prince may have entered a courting period, but what about yourself?_

Derek almost jumped out of his skin when Stiles’s voice reached his ear from very close behind him. “Save me,” the prince said breathlessly, “I command you! There are too many of them; they’ll suck the life right from me.”

Derek turned to find Stiles heaving dramatically, panting as though he’d run a lap around the castle grounds before skidding to a halt behind Derek. Derek raised an eyebrow, fighting the smile he felt tugging at his lips. He looked back over the nobles dispersed before them.

“They don’t seem so bad to me, my prince,” he said mildly.

He felt Stiles move in closer behind him, shielding himself from view of the room. “You may find it easy to say so from the safety of your perch here, but believe you me, Sir Derek, they are truly ravenous,” he said.

“So you’re able to find the courage to face bandit raiders and rebels, but not your father’s court, hmm?”

Stiles chuckled and moved forward to stand at Derek’s side, his hands on his hips. “Rebels and raiders are nothing compared to these bloodsuckers, I’ll have you know. My swordsmanship is much more practiced than my politics.”

“Well it’s a good thing then that as future king, you’ll have no use for politics,” Derek said dryly.

Stiles scowled at him, though it lacked any true heat. “When did you grow a sense of humor, I wonder?”

Derek laughed at his expression. “Blame the wine,” he said, tilting his goblet gently, “and your own servants who keep it flowing like the rain you encountered on your march home.”

Stiles scowled again, but dropped the expression after a short moment, chuckling at his own expense. Then, after a moment, he stilled, looking exhausted again. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “Gods, I could use some more wine myself. All I wish is to escape upstairs to throw myself into my bed. But alas,” he said, gesturing to the lively room with both hands, “politics.”

Derek smiled again and extended his goblet to Stiles, who peered between it and Derek’s face for a long moment. “I’m finished with it, my prince. I do believe I’ve had plenty for the night.”

“Well I would hate to see such a fine vintage go to waste,” Stiles said faintly, accepting the goblet from him. Derek wasn’t sure what the protocol was for sharing food and drink in such a manner with a crown prince, but he imagined his childhood etiquette tutors would be hanging their heads in shame at his indecency. He watched as Stiles tilted his head back and drew a long sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Derek swallowed as well, finding his mouth suddenly dry, and looked away. On the dance floor, the king, who had spent the evening floating from guest to guest, was spinning Lady Melissa in delicate circles to the slow music, smiling down at her. Nearby, Scott was still holding Princess Allison gently, guiding her through the same steps. Kate’s words drifted through his head again.

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter is already under construction, and I'll have it posted as soon as possible. Please let me know what you think so far. I'll see you next time!


	2. Questions Without Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Got this chapter done a little sooner than expected. Again, please excuse any mistakes. Enjoy!

Stiles drummed his fingertips against the solid mahogany table of his father’s council room, listening impatiently to matters that seemed far more trivial than the one on his mind. Around him sat the Masters of War, Coin, Culture, Trade, and Agriculture, and Stiles had listened for almost two hours to their endless squabbling. His father, seated at the head of the table, rubbed his fingertips across his brow tiredly. To the king’s left was Lord Deaton, his Hand. From his place at his father’s right, Stiles glared across the table at the enigmatic man, frustrated Deaton hadn’t made his concerns the primary focus of the meeting. The lord gazed back at him inscrutably with his usual vague smile. 

It had been two days since the feast. After his conversation with Derek, Stiles had been inevitably pulled back onto the dance floor by none other than Lady Lydia. She’d spent almost as much of her childhood at the castle as the Hales had, though unlike the Hales, she’d mostly kept her distance from Stiles and his antics. Stiles had harbored a silly affection for her for years as they grew, replacing his obsession with Derek once Derek was no longer around to tease. She’d always given his attitude right back to him, in contrast to Derek’s unfailing, though often annoyed, patience. Now, Lady Lydia was a beautiful young woman, more intelligent than the rest of the nobles in the capital combined, and just as lovely as she always had been. For the last several years, she’d been in residence at the Grand Academy in the southern province, and, having mastered several subjects already, had moved on to astronomy. Her sharp wit had been a welcome distraction from the strange confusion Stiles had felt over sharing Derek’s wine.

Stiles had turned that conversation over and over in his mind, analyzing it like he would a battle strategy, looking for all perspectives and angles. Although Derek had always been polite to him growing up, he’d held a certain reserve, and Stiles had been pleasantly surprised by their banter and humor. He’d smiled to himself, late that night after he’d finally crawled under his quilts, drowsy and pleasantly drunk, at the memory of Derek’s smile and the shape of his lips, at the warmth of his laugh and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. While Cora and his other suitors were charming in their own right on first impression, Stiles’s most impactful conversation of the night had been with a man who had no intention to court him at all. He wondered if it was that unattainability that piqued his interest so. 

On his second day home, Stiles had slept like the dead, oblivious to the world around him. Although a number of attendants had tried to rouse him, his three day haul home had worn him to the bone, it felt, and the social responsibilities of the feast had spent the last of his energy reserves, so he’d sent them all away. His father had finally come to drag him back to his obligations, an exasperated smile on his face. He’d dined privately that night in the antechamber behind the great hall with the first of his suitors, Lord Daniel Mahealani, though he’d gotten the distinct impression the lord had only traveled to the capital at his father’s behest, and held no genuine interest in Stiles. It had stung him in a way, though only mildly. Daniel had provided polite conversation but nothing more, and Stiles was relieved to retire back to his rooms afterward.

Today, he’d been coerced by his father into attending the regular small council meeting. Since he’d turned fifteen, he’d always attended anytime he was home, and while he had his own concerns to bring before the council, he found the tedium of their bickering rather grating, and wished to be anywhere else. King John, it seemed, agreed, for he looked to Stiles with a blasé look that made the corners of Stiles’s mouth tilt up.

“Enough,” King John said finally, smoothing his fingers across his creased forehead again. “While I agree that these concerns are all important, they can all wait until next we meet. In the meantime, I urge you to use your best judgement.”

The councilors each looked disgruntled with his dismissal, huffing and readjusting themselves in their chairs in their own self-important manners, but they looked to the king with respect as he continued.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, my son has spent many months in the north over the last year, and has brought intelligence back from the war which he feels deserves your attention.”

Stiles cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. Although he’d attended numerous small council meetings, he’d seldom contributed to them, and never with such vague suspicions as he had now.

“Councilors,” he began in greeting, straightening in his chair and clearing his throat. “The army amassed by Lord Myers caused a fair deal of trouble for us. They eventually retreated to their lord’s fortified estate where they sequestered themselves for near half a year before we managed to break the siege and compel Lord Myers’s surrender.”

“Tell us something the war reports did not, boy,” the Master of War griped. Stiles glared at him, but held his tongue.

“While our royal army contended with Myers’s, Sir Derek led the Treskellian troops further north in pursuit of another rebellious faction, this time sponsored by the Douglas family. The lord’s son, Garret, recently assumed control of the estate, and proved a formidable enemy for the Hale forces, but ultimately their defenses gave way and Sir Derek led his army to victory.” Stiles took a deep breath to continue, but was interrupted again by the Master of War.

“Oh come now, can’t you tell us anything we do not already know?”

Stiles leveled a steady look at him, eyes narrowed. “And tell me, Lord Lahey, what exactly could you know of the battles we fought, having wintered here in the capital, at my father’s luxury, tucked safely and warmly away in your rooms?”

Lord Lahey’s face reddened with anger and he gathered himself up to retort, “Are you calling me craven--”

Stiles continued on as if uninterrupted, not permitting him to speak. “It’s a pity you weren’t on the frontlines with the men you claim to represent, for then you might have some iota of understanding of the current situation. Now,” Stiles said, glancing at his amused father and the other gathered councilors. “I have not come here to rehash the details of our campaigns, but rather to discuss a few glaring inconsistencies with them.”

Lord Lahey sat back in his chair sullenly and crossed his arms, but the other members shifted and leaned forward.

“Inconsistencies, Your Highness?” The Master of Culture asked. 

Stiles nodded and looked down at the rich wood grain of the table, spreading his fingers over the polished surface. “Yes, Lady Ramsey. On my second campaign in the north, a little more than two years ago, I was attacked in the night by an armed assassin. He somehow managed to creep all the way to the center of the camp, past countless guards and sentries, to slip into my tent. I happened to be awake at the time, as well as armed, and emerged from the encounter unscathed. We captured the assailant, and obviously assumed our enemies at the time had sent him, especially given that he wore their colors and claimed he’d been paid by them. They denied him at the end, of course, but before he was put to death he had something very interesting to say. Just before the sword came down on his neck, he laughed and yelled out, “You know not who you even fight, stupid dogs.” We had more than petty insults to worry about at the time, but it’s always stayed in the back of my mind. 

“My most recent campaign caused me to reconsider his words, and wonder at their meaning. Over the course of our campaign, I saw plenty of evidence that the Myers estate did not have the funds necessary to amass the army they did. The Myers holdings are a fraction of the size of the next largest, his bannermen numbering only in the tens, let alone the hundreds or thousands. And yet he was able to put together an army of over eight thousand soldiers, most of them sellswords and mercenaries from foreign lands, and reinforce his castle with long overdue renovations. It begs the question, where does a rather poor noble lord like him find the coin for such a force?” 

Stiles fell silent, looking at the faces of those gathered around the table. His father looked pensive, but Stiles couldn’t make out if he’d convinced him yet or not. 

“You are suggesting then,” the Master of Culture said, “that some unknown enemy is financing these rebellions to the north?”

Stiles nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I don’t understand yet who these enemies might be, or even why they’ve chosen to attack us from the shadows, but there is no other explanation.”

A few of them nodded their heads, including, to Stiles’s surprise, the Master of War. 

“It does seem strange,” the Master of Coin conceded after a moment of thoughtful contemplation. “We’ve often wondered over these last years of where this rebellious sentiment originated.” 

Stiles nodded. “With each successful campaign, we’ve tried to capture the lords responsible. Often, they take their own lives or are killed in combat before we’ve had the chance to question them, but those who have been captured have always refused to say a word as to their reasons for rising up. They’ve taken this secret to their graves.”

“Why  _ now _ though?” Deaton said, speaking for the first time. “And how do we know that  _ all _ of these rebellions are connected?” 

“We don’t,” Stiles admitted, “and I cannot answer for why they’ve chosen this moment. But we did capture Lord Myers alive; he is a prisoner of the Royal Army, and at the moment should still be marching southward in chains. If the weather stays as mild as it has since I returned, he should be arriving with the company in the next week or so. Gods willing, he may be able to provide some insight, though he proved less than forthcoming on the road home.”

“The coward’s lips may find themselves loosened once our dungeon master has had a turn at him,” Lord Lahey interjected with a cruel smile. Stiles grimaced. Torture was a line he’d refused to cross when he’d interrogated Lord Myers. He could only imagine what Lord Lahey had in mind for him.

“At any rate,” the king said finally, “it is wise to be open to all possibilities at this time. Lord Deaton, reach out to our Master of Spies on the matter. Perhaps she’s uncovered some rumor that may shed light on the situation.”

Deaton nodded solemnly, his hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robe like a monk. Stiles had only met the Master of Spies a handful of times, here in this very room. She was a small woman, pretty, but unassuming. From Stiles’s recollection, she was Deaton’s own sister.

“I shall, my king.”

King John nodded again, then clapped his hands together. “I thank you all for your time today. Our discussion has been illuminating, as always. Let us adjourn for the moment, unless anyone has more to add.”

The councilors all rose from their seats and bowed to the king before departing. Stiles remained seated, lost in thought. His father sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose for a moment before leveling an appreciative look at the prince.

“You did well today, my son,” he said with a smile. 

Stiles smiled faintly back. “Thank you, father.”

“I mean it,” the king continued, rising from his chair. He approached a refreshments table in the corner and poured them both a goblet of wine before returning to his seat. “Especially the way you handled Lord Lahey.”

Stiles snorted, accepting his wine with thanks. “He’s an irascible old fool, but hopefully he’ll think twice before interrupting me in such a manner again.”

“An irascible old fool he may be, my son, but he’s been a steadfast Master of War over the last several decades. He used to be an absolute bear on the battlefield, as well.”

“As his son will be someday,” Stiles said, sipping from his goblet.

“Oh? And how is the young Lord Lahey doing?”

“Very well,” Stiles answered, looking at his father. “He was very unsure of himself, when I first selected him as my squire, but he’s grown into himself rather nicely. He held up well, both physically and mentally, on the campaign. He would have made his father proud, had the bear seen him in combat. I hope to knight him soon.”

“Perhaps at the tournament during the spring festival,” the king suggested. “If he performs well, he’ll win not only a knighthood but glory and fame as well. The Master of Culture has already begun preparations for a grand affair.”

“Perhaps,” Stiles agreed with a smile.

“And how are your suitors?” The king asked, looking at his son expectantly. Stiles rolled his eyes and took a long draught from his goblet.

“Annoying,” he replied. 

He’d had brunch with another this morning, Lady Malia of the Tate Household to the south. Her family were distant relations to the Hales. Like Lord Daniel the night before, Lady Malia had been very polite, almost formally so, and had continuously steered the conversation back around to Stiles. After over an hour with her, Stiles still felt as though he knew nothing about her. Today, he had an afternoon lunch scheduled with Lady Cora. He looked forward to visiting with her though, hoping it would be more casual and less so like an interview.

“That is to say,” Stiles continued, “they’re all perfectly pleasant, but so far none have struck a particular fancy. I feel as though I’m wasting both my time and theirs,” he confided.

The king laughed. “One will single themselves out from the rest eventually, my son, believe you me. I vied for your mother’s attention against several other available bachelors; compared to them, I felt as the sparrow must when compared to the eagle. I was sure your mother thought me dreadfully dull. But imagine my surprise when she asked for my hand.” He stared off into the distance, wistful. Stiles watched him as he reminisced, a sad longing bringing down his mood. He missed his mother dearly.

She’d passed when Stiles was only ten years old, of a strange disease of the mind. He’d watched as she slowly deteriorated to the point she no longer recognized him. It had broken his heart to witness then, just as it broke his heart anew every time he thought back to it. She’d been such a beautiful woman, a kind and just queen, and a wonderful mother. She’d overseen a great peacetime for the country of Beacon, and was beloved by her subjects. Stiles had been too young to rule when she passed, and so the crown had fallen to his father as King Regent until Stiles would come of age. Now that his father was pushing him to assume more responsibility, Stiles could only hope he’d be as wise a ruler as she, and as loved by the people. 

“You miss her,” Stiles said gently, still watching his father. Still lost in though, the king turned his attention back to his son.

“Every day,” he replied, “as I will until I draw my final breath.”

“So do I,” Stiles said quietly, and his father smiled sadly and reached out to take his hand.

“I know you do, my son. I hope you know how proud your mother would be of the man you’ve become.”

+++

The breeze on the roof was brisk and cold, and though the sun was high in the sky, it was rapidly moving toward the horizon, and the early spring chill cut through the fabric of Derek’s tunic. He pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, thankful for its thick lining, and leaned against the battlement. The smell of freshly cut greenery was heavy in the air.

The sky garden was his favorite place on the castle grounds. Tall, meticulously maintained hedges formed a sort of loose maze in the center, with marble benches and statues of former monarchs lining its paved paths. In the center of the maze was a small greenhouse, filled with exotic plants and a few cushioned lounges, built at the behest of the late Queen Claudia. Smaller topiaries and shrubs ringed the maze, and though they were still budding, soon the garden would be bright with the colors and scents of fresh flowers. 

The garden sat on the roof above the library tower, accessible only from a narrow door set inconspicuously into an alcove between bookshelves. Few visitors knew of its existence, and those who did rarely bothered to scale the high, confined stairs that wound up the tower to it. As such, it was usually a quiet and private place for thought and contemplation, surrounded on all sides by the beautiful pastoral landscapes beyond the city. On a clear day, you could just make out the glint of the sea to the east. 

“I thought I might find you up here,” Cora said from behind him. 

Derek glanced over his shoulder at her as the breeze ruffled his hair, unsurprised at her appearance. “How was your lunch with the prince?” He asked.

Cora shrugged and approached the battlements to stand next to him. “It was fine, I suppose. He spoke at length of the war. Apparently he’s convinced there’s some sinister nemesis pulling the strings from behind. First I’ve heard of it though.”

Derek nodded. “I’ve heard speculation now and again, whispered rumors among the northern lords, but nothing concrete.”

“Do you think it could be true?” Cora asked, looking up at him. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face and pulled the hood of her cloak up to ward against the breeze. Derek shrugged.

“It’s possible, but many things are possible. All we know for sure is that we know nothing of the usurpers’ true motives. An open mind never hurt anyone though.”

Cora turned from him and leaned against the stone, looking out over the farmlands below them. “I hope it proves false,” she said. “I’m tired of these wars. Our homeland has been torn apart by the fighting, and I just wish to see it end.” 

“As do I, Cora. But our duty is to fight alongside the Crown for as long as we need to achieve true peace. All we have right now is an unsteady waiting, and paranoia over who will turn against us next.”

Cora was quiet for a long moment. In the distance, the quiet honking of migrating geese reached them. “Every time you leave for some new battle, we’re left behind to worry, Derek. I never know if each goodbye is our last. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Derek looked down at the rough stone, thinking of his mother and sisters, sitting in their castle and looking out over the horizon for him. “My heart is always burdened with the same unease, but it is not in my character to put my fear before my duty. I wish for peace just the same as you do,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “but if peace should require I lay down my life to achieve it, then I would do so gladly, both for the Crown’s sake and for yours.” 

Cora shrugged off his arm. “How can you say that so easily, Derek?” She asked incredulously, peering up at him with anger in her eyes. “There are too many people who you’d leave behind, too many people who’s hearts would break to mourn you.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair, unsure how to put her mind at ease. “I know that, Cora. Believe me. I don’t love marching out to my potential doom any more than the next soldier does, but death is a rather major consequence of war. How can I expect my men to lay down their lives if I’m not prepared to do the same?”

Cora turned away from him, looking down at the landscape once more, her jaw set. Derek sighed again and reached for her, turning her to face him again though she stubbornly kept her eyes from his face. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently. 

“Put it from your mind, sister; for now, there is no more fighting, and we have much to celebrate in the coming weeks. Besides,” he added, giving her a soothing look, “once you’ve won the prince’s heart, maybe from your place at his side you’ll help him negotiate a more lasting peace.” 

Cora snuck a glance at him and then scoffed, turning back to the battlement. “Perhaps,” she acquiesced, “but between us, I hardly think I’ll be winning the prince’s heart.”

“Oh?” Derek asked, his interest piqued. A small, treacherous ray of hope flared in his chest and he struggled to quash it as guilt quickly grew in its place. His new found attraction to the prince shamed him deeply, given his and Cora’s relationship. He had no right to harbor such thoughts for Stiles, though, he supposed, as long as he kept them to himself there should be no issue.

Cora glanced at him, a faint blush on her cheeks. Derek raised an eyebrow and peered at her, waiting. 

“It’s just that…” she paused, thinking, and sighed before continuing. “You remember at the feast the other night, how the prince and I danced?”

Derek nodded.

“Well, and this isn’t to say I did not enjoy my dance with the prince, but after, I danced with another. Do you recall?”

Derek shook his head. By his estimate, he’d been preoccupied at that point with avoiding Princess Katherine. Cora’s blush deepened and she avoided his gaze. Derek couldn’t help the smile that began pulling at his lips, unfathomably curious as to who had caught her eye to make her forsake the prince.

“Are you familiar with Lady Lydia?” Cora asked shyly, stealing another look at him. Derek’s grin grew.

“Ah,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the stone. “So the flame-haired scholar has bewitched you.” 

Cora threw a glare at him, though it lacked heat. “Well, no. She gives no indication that she thinks of me in such a way. I was the one to invite her to dance, after all. And besides, she’s traveled here from the Academy to pursue the prince, just like the rest of us.”

“If I recall correctly from childhood,” Derek said, “then I doubt Lady Lydia has romantic interest in the prince. Friendly affection, perhaps, but to hazard a guess, I’d say she’d rather continue her studies than settle for courtly intrigues.”

Cora glanced at him again as a small smile appeared on her lovely face. “We shall see, I suppose. But what about you?”

Derek frowned. “What about me?” He asked, confused. An image of the prince’s smiling face flashed through his mind, and Cora grinned at him.

“I saw the way you fraternized with that Argent woman the other night,” she explained. “Care to share?”

Derek scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t remind me of that awful woman,” he said. Cora cackled, delighted. “She may have her eye on me, but I’d rather go blind than set mine on her again.” 

“Well don’t let her overhear you saying such things, brother; from the gossip, I hear she’s as vindictive as they come.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Derek replied. “I found her contemptuous attitude and disregard for our country rather off-putting when we spoke. I only hope I can avoid her for the duration of our stay.”

“Well if you ever find yourself in need of an excuse to get away, I can always feign illness,” Cora suggested.

Derek laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind, sister.”

The breeze rushed past them again, and Cora shivered, clutching her cloak around her shoulders. 

“So were you finished brooding up here in the cold,” she said, “or should I leave you to your thoughts?”

Derek chuckled and turned from the battlement, offering his arm to her. “No, I quite think I’m done for now,” he replied mildly. “Let’s find a fire to warm ourselves at.”

+++

Derek tossed from side to side as one late hour slid into the next. No position offered any more comfort than the last, so finally Derek tossed back his quilts and swung his legs over the side of his feather bed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’d come close to falling asleep earlier, only for the phantom images of Stiles and Katherine to float through his waking dreams, tormenting him as opposite sides of the same coin. Now rest felt like it held him at arm’s length, teasing him with its prospect but staying just out of reach.

He padded over to his wardrobe and pulled a dressing robe from its depths, shrugging it over his bedclothes as he lit a candle to see better by. His feet found his slippers, and then he transferred the candle into a small brass lantern to carry with him.

He eased quietly into the hallway from his chambers, careful not to wake anyone. Cora’s rooms were the next on the left, and other guests slumbered in their own apartments nearby. He crept down the quiet passageways by memory, thinking back to how he’d sleepwalked through these same halls as a child, often waking in areas he couldn’t remember entering. Once, he’d awoken buried in hay in a stall of the barracks stables to the shaking of the confused stablemaster, worried over his state of undress and the early hour of his visit. Derek’s face had burned with shame at the time, but worse than his rude awakening was his awkward walk back through the castle as the rest of the household rose and prepared for breakfast. 

Making for the library, Derek detoured through the kitchens first, careful not to disturb the servants sleeping at the hearth as he pilfered a wineskin and a leftover sweet bun from their stores. The library, when he reached it, was as empty as he’d hoped it’d be, and he quickly set about stoking a gentle fire to read beside. He browsed the stacks, lantern in hand, searching for something dense to read in hopes of boring himself back into sleepiness. 

A short while later, he felt the edges of exhaustion finally creeping back in as he perused a passage detailing the history of the Yukimura navy. He didn’t notice the way his small fire flickered with a change in the air, nor the whisper-quiet chuckle that came from behind.

“And just  _ what  _ could you be studying, at such a late hour?” Stiles said quietly from over his shoulder. 

Derek nearly broke his own neck as he turned his head quickly at the prince’s sudden appearance, and very nearly fell from the chaise he’d been resting on in surprise. Stiles had quite stealthily snuck up behind him, as was his apparent penchant, and had been peering closely over Derek’s shoulder, his breath warm on Derek’s neck as he spoke. Their closeness sent a shiver down Derek’s spine, and when he recovered from his surprise, he sat back up on the chaise with a little bit more distance between them, hoping the dimness hid the warmth he felt on his face.

“My apologies,” Stiles said quickly, retreating half a step and holding his hands up placatingly. In one hand, he held his own wineskin. “I had no intention to startle you so.”

“Good evening, my prince,” Derek said in greeting, trying to regain some sense of composure. “Are you implying that you did intend to startle me at least a bit?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Stiles grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps,” he said mischievously.

Derek chuckled as the last of the surprise faded. “It’s quite alright, I simply didn’t notice your arrival.” He rose from his seat and offered it to Stiles, but Stiles shook his head.

“Oh, you needn’t bother, Sir Derek, but I do thank you,” Stiles replied. He tossed his wineskin onto a nearby stuffed chair and pulled the chair closer to the fire. He sank into it gracelessly, tossing one leg over its arm, and uncorked the wineskin before taking a slow sip. He was wearing a simple tunic, open at the neck so that Derek was able to catch the glint of something hanging on a cord below his collarbone. He wore loose hosen and slippers, as Derek did, with a belt hanging low on his hips, a dagger swinging gently at his side where it dangled over the edge of the chair. Something about the dagger seemed familiar to Derek, but he was distracted by Stiles’s question.

“So, what  _ are _ you reading tonight?” The prince asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Derek’s eyes tracked the movement as he replied, “Oh, just a bit of this and that.” He looked down at the book in his lap and flipped it back open to his last page. “Currently, I’m learning about the formation of the Yukimura navy.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows in mock interest. “Ah, the largest naval force on the continent. You are a military man through and through, it seems.”

Derek chuckled, setting the book aside and repositioning on the chaise so that he reclined back against its arm facing Stiles, one foot tucked under the opposite leg. “And what has the crown prince out of bed at such an unseemly hour?” He asked.

Stiles shrugged, sipping again at his wine. “Oh, just a bit of this and that,” he repeated back with a wicked grin. Derek chuckled and reached for his own wine. Stiles stared at the dying fire for a long moment before continuing.

“It seems I sleep better in camps, these days,” he said finally. “Since returning home, I’ve only had one night’s decent sleep, and that was my first night, thanks to the exhaustion of the journey and the feast. I don’t know if it’s the noise of a camp, the freshness of the outdoor air, or something else entirely, but sleep continues to elude me.”

“That I can commiserate with,” Derek assured him, tilting his wineskin toward him in a small toast before taking a sip.

“Oh really?” Stiles inquired, a playful lilt to his voice. “And here I thought you’d sleepwalked in, and awoken with surprise to be reading of foreign armies.”

Derek scowled at him, a blush rising on his cheeks. “No, my prince, my sleepwalking days are long behind me.”

Stiles chuckled. “Shame. My second guess then,” he continued brightly, “was that you were up late, plotting some dastardly scheme to rob the castle vaults, and had come to the library to plan your escape route using the hidden tunnel.”

Derek’s brow knit in bewilderment. “There’s a hidden tunnel in the library?” He asked incredulously. Stiles nearly spit out the mouthful of wine he’d swigged back, laughing merrily at Derek’s utter confusion.

“Of  _ course _ there’s a tunnel in the library,” he said, “how did you think I snuck in so quietly? There’s secret passages all over the grounds, you just have to know how to look for them.”

“I spent half my childhood here, how did I never learn of these passages?” Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged. “My mother showed me the first one when I was…” he trailed off thinking, reaching absentmindedly for the charm hanging from his neck. “...maybe eight or so. It was only a few years before she passed. You’d become a page by then, so probably you just weren’t around to witness my excitement at their discovery. I did show them to Scott though,” he finished.

Derek hummed quietly, taking another sip of his wine. His eyes fell to the knife at Stiles’s hip again, and he jutted his chin out at it. “That dagger,” he said, “it looks--”

“Familiar?” Stiles said with a smile, reaching for it. He pulled it from its sheath and turned it over in his hands, then leaned forward in his chair to offer it to Derek for examination. Derek sat up and reached forward, stretching to accept it. 

“It should,” Stiles continued. “It’s the one you gifted me for my fourteenth birthday.”

Derek inspected the blade. It was very sharp still, the telltale scuffs from a whet stone marking its edges. The filigree was still set perfectly, a mark of the great craftsmanship it had been fashioned with. The guard was a curved bar of burnished silver, delicately tapered at the ends, the handle wrapped with worn leather. He tested its balance and found it satisfactory. He’d never told the prince, but he’d had it custom made by a Treskellian blacksmith specifically for him. It pleased him that Stiles carried it so casually.

“I carry it with me always. I’ve never had the chance to tell you, but it’s actually saved my life more than once.”

“Truly, my prince?” Derek asked him, leaning forward once more to return it. Stiles retrieved it from his outstretched hand and turned it over again, watching the glint of the low firelight play against the blade.

“The first time was during my second campaign in the north. I was alone in my tent late at night, sitting at my desk--”

“But I thought you always slept better in camps?” Derek interrupted impishly, a grin stretching his lips. “Why were you awake, should you not have been fast asleep?”

Stiles glared at him halfheartedly, but Derek could see him fighting back a smile of his own. “Indeed, I should have been. But we were preparing for a skirmish the next morning, and the plan did not yet sit right with me, and it was keeping me up. I was at my desk, going over our map of the area by lamplight and fidgeting with this knife.” To punctuate his words, Stiles flipped the knife into the air. It turned over its end once and the prince deftly caught it by the tip of its blade. The motion looked practiced, and Derek could picture the prince having done the same a thousand times before.

“I was so distracted that I almost failed to notice the man who slipped into my tent. When I did, I was almost as startled as he was to find me awake and alert. He’d come to slit my throat in the night like a coward, as I could tell by the wicked little blade he carried. He attacked first, lunging across the tent, but I was able to subdue him, only thanks to this dagger.”

“I never heard about that,” Derek responded quietly. Stiles shrugged and slipped the dagger back into its sheath.

“You were stationed rather far away at the time, it wasn’t like this last campaign where our armies were nearly stepping on each other. Anyways, I never go anywhere without it now,” he said, patting it and making it rattle.

Derek smiled faintly. “I’m happy to hear the blade has served you so well.”

“It’s been an honor to carry it,” Stiles said, smiling back at him, and the quiet moment stretched on. The fire crackled and popped as the last of the wood settled into the coals. Derek finally looked away first, reaching again for his wine, and then for the tome he’d neglected.

“Well,” he said rising to his feet, “the fire has just about died down, so I’d better get back to my rooms and try again for sleep. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow the book?” 

Stiles raised a hand and shook his head. “Not at all, Sir Derek. I doubt anyone will miss it until you’ve finished with it. I hope sleep finds you soon.”

“I wish you the same, my prince.”

Derek nodded in a shallow bow and left for the exit, wondering vaguely where the entrance to the secret passage might be as he turned the corner around the edge of a sturdy bookshelf. Or if it was a joke the prince had made at his expense, though somehow he doubted it. The exhaustion had begun to set in once more, but now Derek’s chest felt tight with a pleasant warmth as he thought back to how wondrously the firelight had painted the prince’s features, and he could not keep the smile from his face as he returned to his rooms.

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of conversation in this one, but the next chapter will have plenty of action, I promise. I do have a busy weekend coming up, and then family visiting next week, but hopefully I'll get chapter three up before then so you're not waiting too long. Until next time!


	3. Shadows in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks to everyone so far who has commented, bookmarked, and/or left kudos - y’all are champions and I’m thrilled you’re enjoying the story so much! 
> 
> Here’s chapter three, and like always, any mistakes are my own. See ya next time!

“Careful now, watch your step,” Stiles said in caution, holding the door open for his companion. Princess Allison’s hand gripped his in support as she stepped over the threshold of the narrow doorway, her other hand holding back her swirling skirts from tangling beneath her feet. The door opened onto a small landing. Above them, a winding set of stairs twisted up the inside of the tower for another two stories. Allison lifted her skirts and took the steps lightly, with Stiles following just behind. Another landing awaited them at the top, and Allison pressed against the wall to allow Stiles to pass and open the heavy door at its end.

The weather had finally warmed over the last week or so. The late afternoon sky was awash with kaleidoscopic color and wispy clouds drifted high above them as Stiles led the princess from the entrance to the row of hedges in the center of the rooftop, a pleasant breeze moving the air around them. The final contingent of the Royal Army had finally arrived home the day before, marching through the streets to present their captives to the Crown. Several of Stiles’s suitors, those who he’d had no connection with or who had other obligations to attend, had departed earlier in the week. Their absence gave Stiles a reprieve, and the opportunity to spend more time with those suitors who actually did hold some interest.

Across the rooftop from Stiles and Allison, a few servants hurried to depart, casting furtive glances at the young royals as they walked together. Allison’s face was alight with amazement.

“I hadn’t the faintest idea your home held such a wondrous secret,” she said, leaning in close to smell the first blooms of a rosebush. “My aunt never mentioned such a garden.”

Stiles smiled, pleased with her reaction. “This garden is my favorite place in the castle. Many of our visitors and residents overlook it though for more accessible retreats.”

Allison touched a petal of the rose gently, running a fingertip along its delicate edge, then straightened and returned to Stiles’s side. “Has it always been here? How is it kept flourishing so, despite its remoteness?”

Stiles grinned. “It’s been here for generations. It used to be a private garden for the king when the royal quarters were located in the tower instead of on the third floor, but after some renovations and additions near a century ago, the tower was converted into the library, and the garden became publicly available. The greenhouse, however, was commissioned by my mother a few years before I was born. She traveled a great deal as a young woman, and wanted a place to house some of the more exotic plants she’d sampled.”

As he spoke, the row of hedges they’d been following ended, and the greenhouse itself came into their view as they turned the corner. At Stiles’s request, a number of kitchen servants had hauled trays of food up to the rooftop for his private dinner with the princess, setting up a small table inside the glass structure. A number of lanterns had been strung from its supports, or set on the floor around its perimeter, and the green glass glittered with their flickering light. 

“As for its upkeep, we have a groundskeeping team that works tirelessly to maintain it.” He led her past the greenhouse to the battlements at the edge of the roof. “They use these pullies, here,” he said, leaning between the battlement gaps and gesturing to them, “and here, to lower down some of the more delicate shrubberies when the weather turns for more protected storage, then repot them as needed and raise them back up at the start of every spring, along with fresh soil for the hedges. We typically get enough rainfall throughout the rest of the year to keep them growing. Those same groundskeepers ascend a few times a week to trim and check the health of the plants.”

Allison peered down between the battlements at the sprawling city below, then looked further out at the rolling hillsides around them, her eyes wistful. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “I can see why you claim it’s your favorite place. If I lived here, I dare say I’d never leave such a hidden gem.”

Stiles chuckled and offered his arm. “I do struggle, sometimes, to tear myself away. I’m pleased you like it, Princess.” 

The princess smiled back at him and slipped her arm through his. Stiles led her back to the greenhouse. Its doors were propped open, and the pleasant odor of their waiting meal wafted out towards them. Stiles pushed aside a few stray palm fronds and strode forward to pull out the princess’s chair, then circled to the opposite side of the table to take his own seat. Allison raised her chin to look around the interior.

“Where did your mother get the idea for such a structure?” She asked curiously. The temperature inside was warmer and more humid than it was beyond the opaque glass. Allison shrugged off her cloak and draped it backwards over her chair, revealing the delicate satin of her sky-blue dress. 

“From the Yukimuras to the east,” Stiles answered. “She spent over a year there while her father negotiated our current treaty. While their country is rather lush with dense jungle, they build similar greenhouses to maintain the delicate seedlings that go on to populate their royal gardens, which,” he continued, “I’ve heard are one of the great wonders of our world.”

“Yes,” Allison said in agreement, “I’ve longed to visit for years. I’ve heard so many stories of their country, but their hanging gardens sound absolutely marvelous.”

Stiles smiled as he tucked into his meal. The kitchen had prepared choice cuts of tender steak for their enjoyment, with roasted vegetables and thick, flavorful gravy on the side. A rich cake had been placed on a table nearby for dessert afterwards, positioned next to a carafe of fine wine, of which their goblets were already filled to the brim. 

“My mother said the same. As a gift, a young Prince Ken - now king - sent samples of their native flora home with her. She tended them personally while the greenhouse was constructed.”

Allison picked at her own plate, contemplative. “Your mother,” she began, casting a quick glance at Stiles, “sounds like she was a wonderful woman. I wish I had such a penchant for plants, but everything I’ve tried my hand at tending has eventually withered.”

Stiles chuckled and nodded. “She was indeed. I hope I’m able to do justice to her legacy.”

Allison was quiet for a long moment as she dined. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, she laid her fork aside and looked around at the glass walls again.

“Did you know our parents almost wed, your mother to my father?” She asked.

Stiles’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he set his own fork aside, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before responding. “Is that so? My mother never spoke of a previous arrangement than the one she had with my father.”

“It wasn’t a formal agreement, from what I understand,” Allison continued. “My grandfather and yours talked for years of joining their houses and countries as the most powerful in the region. I’m not sure of the particular circumstances, but obviously their plans were never realized.”

Stiles was quiet for a long moment, unsure of how to respond. Allison sat back in her chair, gazing through the glass at the thin clouds drifting above them. 

“I’ve wondered before what life would have been like had I grown up here, instead, or you in Argenta. Or whether either of us would even exist.” She turned her attention back to Stiles. “Though I suppose we wouldn’t,” she finished.

Stiles sat back in his own chair, gazing across the table at her. The lamplight gave her face an ethereal glow, accentuating the fine structure of her jaw and the straightness of her nose. Stiles considered her words.

“I imagine your presence here indicates that King Gerard would still be inclined to join our houses?”

Allison smiled demurely and ducked her head, her dark hair slipping forward past her shoulder. “It’s hard to say; I would never presume to speak for him. He’s held such a foul opinion of Beacon for so many years that I was surprised he allowed me to travel here at your father’s invitation. Well,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I was surprised your father sent an invitation at all. Aunt Kate makes him sound like a brute in her letters,” she continued casually, then froze, looking with horror across the table at Stiles.

“Prince Stiles,” she said hurriedly, “I sincerely apologize. I meant no offense to you or your father.”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow and lifted a hand to dismiss her concerns, too curious to learn more of King Gerard’s opinion of his country.

“None taken, Princess,” he assured. He cocked his head to the side and regarded her as she spoke again.

“My aunt can be… well, she’s ambitious, and rather self-centered, and I hardly think she envisions herself as an ambassador for the rest of her life.”

“Why would King Gerard send his own daughter as an ambassador to a country he loathes?” Stiles asked.

Allison pursed her lips. “That was my father’s doing, rather than his. My grandfather is aging, and in his age has allowed old grievances to resurface and make him paranoid. He’s become preoccupied with fortifying the country, and wishes to close it off entirely. Strength, security, and power are his main goals now.”

Stiles was not surprised by her description of her grandfather. Intelligence on Argenta was scant, but what information did make it past the Silver Mountains painted the old man in just as unflattering a light. Stiles had been told of the Argenta retinue’s arrival, and how Princess Allison traveled with almost an entire company of Argentan soldiers. For a man as obsessed with power and security, Stiles supposed King Gerard must’ve shown a degree of restraint to only send his granddaughter with the one contingent.

“Your father feels differently about the matter?”

“Yes,” Allison answered, reaching to take a sip from her goblet. “He feels we should be reaching out to our neighbors rather than shutting them out, as do I. He and my grandfather often butt heads about it. My father was the one who accepted your father’s invitation in the king’s stead while he was… indisposed, and the king only permitted it so as not to appear to renege on his word. I highly doubt he’d allow a marriage between us though, however strongly my father would like for that to happen.”

“If you knew marriage was unlikely, why travel all this way?” Stiles asked openly, genuinely curious. Allison’s returning smile was a small thing, private.

“I suppose I wanted to get away, just for a while. See something new. I haven’t half the freedom at home that you have here.”

“And what is your opinion of my country and people, now that you’ve seen it?” Stiles asked. 

Allison looked at him thoughtfully, then sighed and looked again at their surroundings. “I think it’s enchanting, Prince Stiles, and its people even more so. Things in Argenta are more stark, less colorful, and the people seem here seem happier. I suppose that must be a reflection of our kings.”

“Perhaps,” Stiles answered. “But perhaps when you return to Argenta, you could bring some of our color with you,” he suggested, a small smile pulling at his lips. Allison frowned at him, her brows knit in confusion.

“Prince?” She asked, seeking clarification.

“I told you the Yukimuras gifted us with these fronds and vines,” Stiles said, gesturing to the foliage around them. “It was a gift from one future ruler to another. I’d be honored if you’d take a few cuttings home, Princess. Someday, when I visit your land, maybe you’ll be able to show me your own garden.”

Allison’s smile stretched across her face until she was beaming at him, her dimples showing in her delight. She chuckled quietly, ducking her head and tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. “As I mentioned, I haven’t much luck in caring for plants historically. But,” she added, reaching out to caress a leaf as wide as her face, “I’d be willing to give it another try, for the sake of renewed friendship between our countries.”

Stiles returned her smile brightly. “Well,” he said, pushing his plate aside. “As delicious as our meal has been, I find myself ready for dessert.”

Allison giggled. “I did always prefer dessert to the main course,” she admitted.

Stiles laughed and rose from his chair. “I would be a terrible host to rob you of your preference, then,” he said. He retrieved the platter the cake rested on and set it in the middle of their shared table, offering the princess a clean utensil. It was a small cake, so he didn’t bother cutting or serving it. Besides, he felt comfortable enough with the princess to allow decorum to slide.

He dug his fork into the chocolate-frosted side of the cake, looking across to Allison. “Shall we?” He asked.

Allison returned his smile and dug in with her own fork.

+++

As usual, sleep evaded Stiles that night. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he sat up in his bed, yawning. He felt the exhaustion of his continued sleeplessness, but his mind whirled each night when he finally laid to rest, and inevitably he found himself traipsing through the darkened castle to the library. He’d started working his way through a chronicle of poetry dense enough to wear his already frayed faculties. As he rose from his bed and found his slippers, he told himself he’d head down only long enough to retrieve his current volume, and would return to read from the comfort of his own bed. He’d been found, awkwardly sprawled across some chair or chaise, several times by servants in the early hours of the morning, having passed out at some obscene hour with a tome still resting on his chest. He knew the castle was beginning to talk.

But in truth, he knew he’d stay in the library, just as he always did, hoping Derek might find him there again. It had only happened once more since their initial midnight encounter, but every evening since, Stiles had waited until the night had turned to morning for another visit from the man. He knew it was silly to waste his affections on Derek, but their conversations were so easy, and, if Stiles were being truly honest, the man himself was even easier to look at. The quiet comfort of the library was Stiles’s sanctuary, but it was Derek’s possible presence that made Stiles seek it out time and again.

He pulled a tunic over his head for decency’s sake, then, thinking twice, also strung a thin belt around his waist to hang his dagger from. Though he knew he wouldn’t need it, its presence at his side was as reassuring to him as a sword was on a battlefield. Dressed, he turned away from the door that led to his antechamber and instead brushed aside the heavy tapestry that hung next to the terrace, and pressed his fingertips against a smooth stone indistinguishable from the rest. There was a faint click and a section of the wall moved backwards with a low rumble. A set of oiled gears turned behind the wall, soundlessly allowing access as a gap appeared, just wide enough for Stiles to slip through. From the other side, he leaned against the panel, pressing it back into its place with another quiet click. 

The passageway was pitch black, but Stiles knew the route by heart. The path to his rooms was branched from a main passage from which any room in the castle could be accessed. Once discovered, he’d roamed the hidden depths of the castle at length as a child, often with Scott in tow and a lamp in hand, eavesdropping on the private conversations of unsuspecting guests through peep holes and small crevices between bricks. They’d never stumbled across anything too scandalous, but the thrill had kept them exploring. 

Stiles followed his feet, counting his steps to ensure he traveled in the correct direction. He did not head immediately to the library, but instead took another fork toward the kitchen. In a similar fashion as before, he pressed against a hidden knob and a panel behind the woodstove slid open soundlessly, and he crept in just long enough to retrieve a wineskin and a few rolls, holding out the front of his tunic to make a sort of basket for them to rest in. He briefly considered bringing along a pair of goblets, just in case Derek did appear, then thought better of it. If the man showed, Stiles reasoned, then they could share the wineskin between them if Derek didn’t bring his own, as they had at the feast when Stiles returned home. He rather liked the intimacy of the idea.

He returned to the passage and closed it behind himself, then continued on to the library. When he reached it, the entrance swung open as silently as it always did. It was concealed behind a bookcase mounted on silent internal hinges off to the side of the room, next to a window through which the full moon spilled its light. He closed it soundlessly behind himself.

The library was dark, which Stiles knew signaled he was alone. Still, he slinked through the endless rows of shelves to be sure, hoping that just perhaps, he might stumble across a sleepwalking Derek. He knew it was unlikely, but the thought brought a grin to his face as it always did. He found himself the sole occupant, however, and approached the fireplace. He set aside his treats and prepared a low fire, just bright enough to read by, and sat by it and stoked the flames with a long iron poker, transfixed by its flickering. After a few minutes, he heard the muted tell-tale groan of the main door swinging open on its ancient hinges, then quietly closing again. He smiled to himself, sure of who must be making their way toward his light.

He waited until he heard his visitor’s footsteps behind him before rising and turning, only to find himself greeted not by his raven-haired confidant, but rather by four armed men. They wore black leathers, studded at the seams with iron rivets that reflected the light of the flames, and cowls that covered the bottom halves of their faces. Two of them already had their weapons drawn. They regarded him silently for a long moment, and Stiles’s heart began racing, pounding a frantic rhythm against his sternum.

“Who are you?” He demanded, trying to keep the fear from his voice. His grip on the poker loosened in his right hand as sweat gathered on his palms and brow. The men glanced between themselves, and when one nodded, another took a few steps toward Stiles.

“Who sent you?” Stiles asked, flexing his fingers around the handle of the poker. None answered him, and the one approaching with his sword drawn did not slow. 

Stiles barely got the poker up quickly enough to deflect the attacker’s first strike, the metal of his sword sparking off the iron rod with a clang. The man whirled around without pause and Stiles saw he had a long wooden baton braced against his forearm. The attacker brought it down heavily with the momentum of his spin towards Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles blocked the baton with the poker, then reached for his dagger with his left hand, only just bringing it up in time to catch the attacker’s sword as he twisted again and slashed at Stiles’s side, aiming to rend him in two. 

The blow rattled up Stiles’s arm to his shoulder, and the force of the strike slammed the flat of his dagger’s blade into his ribs sharply. His next inhale ached. The attacker’s sword slid up the length of the dagger and caught on its curved hilt. Without thinking, Stiles used the momentary deadlock to kick out at the attacker’s leg, snapping it backward and dropping him to his knees. The assailant cried out sharply in pain, but Stiles paid it no mind, dropping the poker and yanking his dagger free. He sprung forward, dropping low, and grabbed the man by the back of his head, plunging his blade up into the soft flesh under the man’s chin through his cowl. This time, the man uttered no cries of pain, only gasping out a wet gurgle as the light left his eyes. Stiles bared his teeth and snarled as he jerked his dagger back down and pushed the man’s limp body aside, retrieving his discarded sword and switching his weapons between hands before staggering to his feet. 

His chest heaved as he turned back to the other assailants, the ribs of his left flank flaring in pain with each breath. The second man was already approaching him from beyond a writing desk, eyes set with purpose in the gloom. Stiles spat on the ground at him.

“Come then,” he challenged brazenly, holding his arms wide. “You’ll find it no easy thing to kill a prince.”

The second man charged, and Stiles dodged forward and overturned the table between them with a kick to its edge to slow his progress. The man was nimble, though, and leapt over the furniture with ease, twisting in mid-air to bring his sword around. Stiles parried with his own sword, knocking the blow away, and then began his counter-attack, slashing at the man and relying on his training as adrenaline coursed through his body. He suddenly felt as though he were back in the fields of Treskellia, consumed by the chaos and confusion of battle, as he jabbed and dodged and parried. 

Vaguely, Stiles was aware of the third man drawing his sword. He ducked under a wide swing by the second and leapt away, rolling on his shoulder to put some distance between himself and the assailants. His heart hammered against his chest. A bead of sweat gathered at his temple and rolled down his cheek as he backpedaled away from the circling attackers. They stood between him and both the main and hidden entrances. He thought briefly of making for the door to the rooftop garden, but he knew his attackers would pursue him there, and he also knew he did not have the stamina to make it up the stairs before they’d catch him. Every breath he drew was agony, and though his situation looked grim, he knew in his bones that his only hope was to fight his way out.

The two assassins approaching him attacked simultaneously. Stiles hurled himself backwards to avoid the wide slash of the first while trying to bat the other man’s sword away. He didn’t gain enough distance, however, and the tip of the first man’s sword sheared through the thin linen of his shirt, parting the flesh beneath in a long but shallow cut. Stiles grunted as the fresh pain of it blossomed across his chest, but had no time to pay it further mind as the two men continued pressing him backwards. 

He raised his sword to defend against one wild swing and dodged to the side, putting distance between himself and the first man and placing the second attacker between them. He parried against another swing, his sword vibrating in his hand under the impact, and flipped his dagger around in his left hand so its blade pointed backwards, then threw his fist forward with as much force as he could muster, connecting solidly with the second man’s jaw. The attacker’s head snapped back, and Stiles’s used his short pause to twist with the motion and bring his sword around, slashing at the man’s unprotected neck. His blow connected with a spray of blood.

The attacker dropped his weapon and reached with both hands to stymie the blood gushing from his throat, and Stiles kicked brutally at his chest, sending him tumbling backward into the third attacker. He heard the sound of the fourth attacker unsheathing his weapon, but the third assassin merely shoved his partner aside without care and advanced quickly on Stiles.

Stiles retreated, blocking as the third attacker lunged forward. He brought his sword up again and again under the man’s onslaught, only just preventing the razor-sharp edge of his blade from finding its mark. It swung past his face, humming through the air and missing by only a hairsbreadth. He panted, gasping for air, and jabbed out with his dagger at the man’s flank. The other man spun just out of reach, and the tip of Stiles’s dagger caught shallowly on his leather, scoring it with a long scratch. His opponent huffed out an exhilarated chuckle, then darted forward once more. Stiles moved to retreat again, only to collide with a bookcase he hadn’t even realized he’d backed himself up to. 

At that moment, Stiles heard the main door creak open again. This time he knew who must’ve entered, and he gave no thought to the strained shout that ripped from his throat as he brought his sword up yet again to parry his attacker’s next swing.

“DEREK!” He bellowed, feeling his ribs ache with the force of his cry. The metallic clashing of swords echoing through the library would be unmistakable to him.

“Stiles?!” Came Derek’s confused shout of reply, but after a moment Stiles saw Derek skid around the corner of a bookshelf and into view. He barely registered the shock on Derek’s face as his attacker renewed the vigor of his attacks, bringing his sword down in a strong two-handed vertical strike.

Stiles faltered under the force of it and brought his dagger up under his opponent’s blade to give himself more leverage, pushing forward and grunting with the effort of it. The attacker’s sword slid down to lock against Stiles’s at the hilt, and Stiles spared half a second to glance over as Derek rushed the final attacker, who turned to him with his sword raised.

His momentary distraction cost him, however, and his attacker ripped his sword away and spun, bringing it back around in a heavy swing. Stiles managed to bring his own sword back in time to catch his blow, and found himself locked again at the hilt. He shifted his weight and tried to bring his dagger up under the man’s outstretched arm, but the man took one hand off his sword and caught his wrist, shoving it away. Before Stiles could react, the attacker reached quickly down and retrieved his own dagger, pulling the wicked little thing from its sheath and flipping it in his hand, driving it up under Stiles right arm.

Stiles felt only the impact of the blow thump against his side as the blade slipped between his ribs, parting his flesh easily. He gasped, eyes wide, staring up at the satisfied expression in his attacker’s eyes.

“Not so difficult to kill a prince, after all,” the attacker snarled at him. 

_ Not like this,  _ Stiles thought to himself as rage welled up inside him.  _ Not here, not like this. _

The assassin twisted the blade viciously and ripped it free, and Stiles’s breath left him in an involuntary cry of pain. His knees felt weak, and he fought the urge to collapse in a heap on the stone floor. He sagged forward against his attacker, held up only by their joined swords, then dragged in a ragged, torturous breath and steeled himself, gathering his remaining strength. 

He straightened his legs, driving himself upwards and bashing the crown of his head against the underside of his opponent’s chin. The other man grunted at the unexpected blow and reeled back. Stiles swung his left arm up and made to bury his dagger in the man’s heart, but the blade glanced off a metal stud as the man twisted and drove instead into the socket of his shoulder, lodging there firmly. On instinct alone, Stiles let go of the dagger and managed to bring his sword up and around in a desperate two-handed slash, carving a deep wound across the man’s chest from the hip to his opposite shoulder. The man’s eyes flew open in surprise at the vigor of Stiles’s final attack and he cried out in pain as he slumped back on the stone floor, defeated.

Stiles felt no relief at his victory. He swayed there briefly, looking down at his bloodied opponent in disbelief. A short ways away, he watched as Derek, somehow having disarmed the fourth attacker, brought the man’s own sword down on his neck, parting his head neatly from his shoulders. Stiles’s strength gave way and he collapsed to his knees. His vision pulsed black at the edges, and he finally looked down at himself.

Blood poured from his side, slicking his tunic to his flank with its wetness and spilling down in fat drops that splattered against the stone. He pressed his hand to the wound, feeling its warmth seep between his fingers. He heard the clang of Derek’s sword hitting the ground, and he looked up when he heard Derek’s voice, as if from a great distance.

“My prince,” Derek said with dread. “You’re hurt!”

Derek rushed to bridge the distance between them, dropping to his knees at Stiles’s side. He looked Stiles over quickly, his eyes wide and panicked. Stiles appreciated his closeness, and gazed at Derek with no regard for his own condition, admiring how the color of his eyes seemed to change by the second in the flickering firelight.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles rapsed, “we need--” 

His words were cut off by his own choked cough, and the tang of blood filled his mouth. Derek’s eyes darted to his lips as Stiles sputtered, and Stiles wiped at them with the back of his hand, looking down at the blood he’d coughed up.

“Fuck,” he muttered faintly.

Derek grabbed his left arm and hauled it over his shoulder, gripping it tightly and lifting Stiles to his feet. He wrapped his other arm around Stiles’s side and pressed his hand firmly against Stiles’s over the wound, adding more pressure to it.

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek said hurriedly. “We need to get you to the physician.”

A delirious laugh bubbled up in Stiles’s chest. He leaned heavily against Derek as the other man all but dragged him toward the library entrance. He’d been on a battlefield before, as had Derek; he knew they both understood the severity of his wound, but he’d keep pretending for Derek’s sake. 

+++

Midnight found Derek wandering the halls of the castle, lantern in hand as he made for the library. Bright moonlight poured through the windows he passed. He’d heard rumors of late that the prince had all but occupied the library by night, and was commonly still found there when first light broke over the horizon. A small part of Derek was disappointed that the prince still slept so poorly, but tonight, faced with his own restlessness, Derek hoped selfishly that he’d find Stiles there again. 

He hummed to himself as he walked, some fragment of a jaunty tune played earlier by the minstrels at dinner, enjoying the quiet serenity of the slumbering castle. He turned a corner and paused, a distant sound catching his attention. It passed as quickly as it came and the quiet settled in around him again, but Derek frowned as he continued forward. It had almost sounded like… 

The noise came again, louder this time as Derek approached the library, then again. It was unmistakably the metallic clash of steel against steel. His pace quickened to a jog as dread filled him, his light mood and merry tune forgotten. He hoped against all reason that he’d misidentified the sound and would find Stiles up to some mischief instead, but his optimism was dashed to pieces as he pushed the library door open. 

“DEREK!”

Stiles’s shout was hoarse, edged with wildness. The hair at the back of Derek’s neck stood on end as adrenaline surged through his body, and he leaned forward and sprinted into the library, dropping his lantern with a clatter, pounding toward the faint flickering light at the far end of the room. 

“Stiles?!” He shouted back, hearing the confusion and thick worry in his own voice. No answer came, save for the continued ring of colliding swords.

He rounded the corner of a row of bookshelves, his slippers sliding against the stone floor as he stopped, observing the gruesome scene before him. On the ground lay two bodies, slick pools of blood seeping steadily outward from their prone forms, cast black in the dimness. An unknown man with a cowl pulled up over his face turned at Derek’s intrusion, snarling at him as he rotated, sword already in hand. One table was overturned, and across from it, backed into a bookcase and locked at the hilt with another attacker, was his prince.

Relief pooled in the pit of Derek’s stomach at the sight of him, bloodied but standing. The prince was injured, which caused rage to well up in Derek. His shirt was torn across the chest, revealing a thin strip of damaged flesh, but he looked mostly unwounded otherwise. The prince darted a look across the room at Derek, and Derek saw the desperation in his eyes, but almost immediately he returned his attention to the fight before him as his opponent jostled for leverage and freed his sword, bringing it back down in a heavy swing. Stiles managed to parry it, but then Derek was distracted from his prince by the other attacker, who approached him menacingly.

The attacker heaved his sword into the air and brought it down toward Derek’s neck. Derek surged forward and focused all his attention and reflexes on the strike, ducking under it as the blade whistled past his face and bringing both hands up to catch the attacker’s where they gripped his sword. From his closeness, he looked into the attacker’s eyes, and found only anger and brutality reflected there. Derek brought his knee up sharply into the man’s stomach and wrenched at his hands simultaneously, ripping the sword from his grip as the man doubled over and grunted in pain.

The sword clattered to the ground. Derek briefly glanced at it, but the attacker recovered from his blow quickly, and struck out with his fist, connecting with Derek’s cheek. Derek rolled his head back with the punch, lessening its impact. Another blow connected with Derek’s side and Derek danced away, then closer again, bringing his elbow forward into the man’s nose. The man howled in pain as his nose broke, blood erupting and spilling down his chin. Derek used the moment to lunge for the discarded sword. A cry of pain came from across the room and then Derek was vaguely aware that Stiles was the only other man now standing. The final attacker turned briefly to observe his fallen partner, and Derek used his distraction to heave the sword into the air and bring it fluidly down towards the man’s exposed neck. He looked back to Derek just as the sword edge kissed his neck, and surprise remained on his face as his head parted from his shoulders cleanly, bouncing to the floor with a pinwheel of blood and rolling away. The body slumped and tumbled to the ground, but Derek was already looking back to Stiles.

The prince swayed once on his feet, then collapsed to his knees, and it was then that Derek saw the blood spilling from his flank, soaking his clothes. Horror at the sight welled up inside him, and he tossed his bloodied sword to the ground and rushed to Stiles’s side. 

“My prince,” Derek said, hating the desperation he heard in his own voice. “You’re hurt!”

Stiles gazed up at him, his honey-brown eyes far away and glazed with pain. “It’s nothing,” Stiles said thickly after a moment, “we need--”

His words were cut off by his own cough, a wet, ragged sound that flecked his lips with blood. More fear twisted Derek’s stomach. Stiles wiped at his lips with the hand not pressed against his side.

“Fuck,” he said, looking hollowly down at the smear of blood he found there.

Derek moved quickly as he hoisted the prince’s left arm across his shoulder, pulling him snugly against himself for support. He stood, bringing the prince up with him, and wrapped his other arm around Stiles, clamping his hand against Stiles’s to put further pressure on his wound.

“Come on, Stiles,” he said quickly. “We need to get you to the physician.”

Stiles choked out a laugh, and the disconcerted absurdity of it caused Derek to hasten as he pulled Stiles toward the library entrance. The door was still cracked open, and Derek shouldered through it.

“Guards!” He roared, peering through the dimness. They were alone.

“You’ll wake the whole castle, shouting like that,” Stiles slurred to him. Derek glanced at him.

“That’s the intention, my prince,” he replied, before sucking in a deep breath and bellowing again, “GUARDS!”

From a distance, Derek heard the clatter of chainmail and heavy footfalls, and then a pair of guards rounded a corner and approached them, drawing their weapons. They looked at Derek with wide eyes, absorbing the image of their bloodied prince at his side. More rattling footsteps sounded from behind them, and Derek hurriedly barked out orders.

“The prince has been attacked; secure the library and rouse the physician. Have her meet us in the prince’s quarters.”

They continued to stare at him as though he might be responsible for their prince’s state. Stiles shifted against him.

“Go,” the prince instructed weakly, “do as he says. Now!”

The guards before them sprang forward and sprinted toward the library. The guards behind them took off in the opposite direction, heading for the stairs that would lead them up to the next floor where Lady Melissa’s quarters were located. Derek followed them much more slowly, though with as much haste as he could muster. Stiles was heavy at his side, and was quickly becoming a leaden weight as his strength failed him.

“No no no no,” Derek breathed out, glancing over at Stiles as the prince’s head lolled onto his shoulder. “Stiles, my prince, look at me. You must stay awake.”

Stiles’s eyelids fluttered, and he looked blearily up at Derek through his long lashes. Blood seeped between Derek’s fingers and splashed to the floor. 

“Don’t call me that,” Stiles said quietly, “not like this. I don’t like hearing it like this.”

Confusion twisted Derek’s brow, but he hardly had time to puzzle out the prince’s meaning. “I’ll call you whatever you want me to when you’re well enough again to tell me,” he replied, dragging Stiles up the foot of the stairs. 

“If,” Stiles insisted pessimistically, “ _ if _ I get well.”

“You will,” Derek replied earnestly. He could not allow himself to consider the alternative. “You will,” he said again. “Just keep awake, keep your eyes on me.”

Stiles huffed out a tremulous chuckle. “Gladly,” he responded.

They reached the first landing at the second floor, and Derek hauled Stiles around the corner, his legs burning with the exertion as he propelled them up to the next. When they reached the hall, Derek found a handful of guards had beat them there. They held the door of the prince’s chambers open for him, and Derek had barely stepped across the threshold when more guards arrived, escorting Lady Melissa. She wore a dressing gown and slippers, and surveyed the scene with wide eyes. Derek pushed further into the room and into the one beyond it, not sparing any time to observe his surroundings. Lady Melissa’s voice was steady and clear as she spoke.

“Place him on the bed,” she instructed briskly.

Derek did as he was told, gently laying the prince down atop his unmade bed. Stiles’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned as Derek settled him and stepped back. Melissa hurried forward to inspect him. Through the open door, servants, assistants of the physician, hurried in, one carrying a basket of clean towels and another a tray of small colored jars and vials, no doubt filled with tinctures and salves. A third carried a large jug of water.

Derek stepped back out of their way, nearly running into the king as he entered the room quickly, panic and fear twisting his features. Melissa grasped the prince’s tunic where it was torn across his chest and yanked at it harshly, ripping it open further to reveal the prince’s battered body.

“What happened?” The king demanded of the room. Derek tore his eyes away from the scene to face him.

“He was attacked, in the library. Assassins dressed in black leathers and cowls to conceal their faces,” Derek explained. 

He looked across the room at his prince as his bare torso rose and fell with only the faintest motion as he breathed. The wide wound across his chest seeped blood slowly, dripping down his sides and pooling in the shallow dip of his sternum. An ugly, mottled bruise bloomed along his left flank, but it was the final wound which turned Derek’s stomach. It was to the right of the center of his chest, about level with his elbow. It wasn’t particularly large or long, but its rawness gaped as still more blood flowed freely with each continued beat of his heart, flooding down his side and soaking into the ruined bedding.

Melissa pressed a clean towel against it, then instructed an assistant to take her place and hold firm pressure against it. She approached Derek quickly where he stood at the king’s shoulder.

“My assistants will be coming and going with clean water and supplies, but their presence is the only I can tolerate while I work on the prince,” she said seriously. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, leaving a thin streak of the prince’s blood across her brow. “I can afford no distractions if he is to be saved, is that clear?” 

She did not wait for their response before turning back to her charge. Derek nodded numbly, hardly able to tear his eyes from the prince’s form. The king nodded as well, and finally he turned from his son and strode through the doorway into the prince’s study. Derek followed close behind and pulled the door shut, and then the king rounded on him, gripping him by his arm.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” he commanded shortly. Derek saw rage and worry warring in his eyes, and he nodded again, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat.

“There were four of them,” he began. “I was sleepless and wandering the halls, and heard the commotion of the fight. The prince had already killed two of them before I arrived. I killed one of the remaining and the prince felled the last. I didn’t see the strike that wounded him so, but I roused the guards and carried him here for attention.” 

The king’s eyes searched his face closely as he related the events, and he sighed heavily when Derek finished, releasing his arm and running a hand through his hair tiredly. He sat in a stuffed chair at the prince’s writing desk. Several guards were standing at attention just inside the door, and one stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. It was his Uncle Peter, and he glanced toward Derek before addressing the king.

“Majesty,” he said. “We searched the library but only found three assassins. The last must’ve escaped before we reached them.”

King John leveled him with a hard look. “Search the castle. Check every room and every passageway. Find him!”

Peter nodded once and turned on his heel, barking quick orders to the others. Two remained in the room at attention, flanking the entrance. Derek heard the other guards’ armor rattle as they jogged down the corridor, shouting for more guards and organizing the search. Derek crossed the room to sink onto a chaise under the window, his strength fading as the last of the adrenaline wore off. In its place, Derek felt a deep uneasiness rise in his chest. He stared down at his bloodstained hands, watching how they shook. He was not a particularly religious man, but he found himself recanting old prayers in silent begging for any god listening to intervene and save his prince.

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised action last time and now I’m leaving you with a cliffhanger - sorry about that! 
> 
> Let me know what you think though. Until next time!


	4. The Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up - as I mentioned in a previous posting, I had family visiting from across the country and no time to work on the update. I've finally got it finished though, so please enjoy!

Sir Scott was the first to arrive after the king. His eyes were wild and worried as he barged into the prince’s study, chest heaving from his sprint across the castle. When the door opened, Derek could hear distant commotion in the castle as guards hunting the missing assailant shouted their positions to each other and pounded on each door, waking and questioning confused guests. Like both Derek and the king, Scott was still dressed in his bedclothes, his hair rumpled from sleep, creases from his pillow still marked across his cheek. 

“What’s happened?” He asked hurriedly, crossing to the desk to stand before King John. He leaned forward and rested his palms against the desktop as the king looked up at him, looking far older than he was.

“Stiles was attacked. Your mother is tending him now,” he said hollowly.

Scott looked over to the closed door of Stiles’s bedchamber. Faint noises and quiet, unintelligible discussion could be heard from beyond. Scott looked back at the king, his expression focused and serious.

“How badly is he wounded?” 

The king looked up at him again for a long moment, his eyes unfathomable, and words seemed to momentarily fail him. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.

“He’ll be alright,” he finally said. It sounded thin to Derek’s ears, as though the king were still trying to convince himself. “He has the best physician in the country treating his wounds.” King John clenched his teeth, his jaw flexing. “He _will_ be alright. We must have faith in his strength now, and trust in your mother’s skill.”

“How bad is it, my king?” Scott asked again lowly, unsatisfied with the king’s platitudes. King John gazed back at him dolefully, an uncharacteristic pleading in his eyes, then looked away to Derek. 

Scott followed his look, urgent concern growing into cold fear as he noticed Derek and his sullied state for the first time. Derek looked down at himself, at his hands. The blood there had dried to a rusty patina that flaked off around his knuckles as Derek flexed his fingers. He wondered idly how much scrubbing it would require to wash it all away. His clothes were ruined, stained red all down one side from supporting the prince, and splattered across the chest with his enemy’s blood. Derek looked back up to meet Scott’s eyes, and with only the barest movement, shook his head once.

Scott’s mouth pressed into a thin line as the color drained from his tan face, and he drew in a shuddering breath. He nodded to himself and ran a hand through his hair, spinning on his heel away from the desk and pacing the length of the room. He crossed his arms and rubbed at his crooked jaw with one hand.

Derek watched him pace, admiring his fortitude. His own stomach was twisted up in knots, and the sick taste of bile sat at the back of his throat. He saw the tumbling decapitated head of the final attacker, expression frozen in shock, every time he closed his eyes. He saw the fine spray of blood, saw the way Stiles’s knees had buckled under him, heard his pained groans echoing in his ears. All of it flashed through Derek’s consciousness unrelentingly. He knew he should be on his feet as Scott was, seeking answers, or out searching the castle, but his legs were lead weights, and if he stood, Derek knew he would falter.

“What do we know so far?” Scott asked after a few long minutes.

“Not much,” he answered after a long moment, sucking in a lungful of air. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and related the same information to Scott as he had to the king. Scott listened to him intently.

“There must be some kind of trail,” Scott said as he finished. “If the attacker was wounded but survived and managed to flee, he must have left some trace behind to indicate his direction.”

“If he did, the Royal Guard will no doubt find it,” the king said tiredly.

Scott resumed his pacing, his brow knit together as he puzzled over the details. “How did they get into the castle?” He wondered aloud. His gaze was distant and Derek shook his head. 

“Four armed men could not have simply walked through the front door,” Derek answered. Scott nodded, glancing at him. 

“They must have either snuck in, somehow, or were let in. But who would do such a thing? And how did they know to find him in the library?”

“It’s been rumored lately that the prince has trouble sleeping, and often spends the late hours of the night reading in the library,” Derek said, considering the circumstances more thoughtfully. It steeled him to focus on such details, and the echoing clash of swords slowly faded from his awareness, a sense of clarity returning to him as he turned his attention to the facts. 

“So they must be intimately acquainted with the courtly gossip,” Scott began, dropping his arms to his side and looking at Derek.

“Implying they’ve either been sheltering in the castle since the rumor began, or received instruction from someone who has,” Derek finished. Scott stared across the room at him, his expression hardening with grim realization.

“Someone in these halls wants my son dead.”

Scott and Derek both looked to the king as he spoke. He was staring down at the wood grain of the prince’s writing desk, his palms spread across it. His jaw was set, but instead of fear, Derek now saw rage twisting the king’s expression. The king stood from the desk abruptly and strode to the door where two guards still stood at attention.

“I want you to stand guard outside this door ceaselessly,” the king commanded. “No one but myself and those already present are to be allowed inside this room without my express permission until further notice, is that understood?”

Both guards nodded, regarding their king seriously, then bowed and retreated to stand guard outside the room, keeping watch on the passageway. The king stormed out after them.

Scott watched him go, then crossed to the chaise Derek rested on. “Are you wounded? I should’ve asked sooner,” he said, sitting next to him. Derek’s cheek throbbed from the blow he’d taken earlier, as did his side, but he shook his head. 

“No,” he said, looking down at himself. “The blood isn’t… it’s not mine.”

Scott was quiet for a long moment, then looked at Derek gently. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? It can’t be a good reminder to sit around in such a state.”

Derek shook his head and stared resolutely down at his hands. “Scott, I can’t leave him. Not like this,” he said swallowing thickly. “Not until… until I know.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Scott replied. “I know him, whatever the extent of his injuries, Stiles is too stubborn to let this be his end. And I promise that I’ll send word at the first sign of a change in his condition.”

Derek remained quiet for a long time, then sighed and stood. His body felt heavy with fatigue. He clapped Scott on the shoulder and left. 

The hallways were abuzz with activity. Torches had been lit along each wall, illuminating the passages brightly as guards jogged back and forth. When Derek reached the second floor, he found many of the guests and residents standing in their doorways or in small groups along the walls, clutching their dressing robes around their shoulders and peering into the hallways, confused and frightened at the activity. He caught snippets and whispers as he passed: that the king had been assassinated, that the castle was under attack, that Derek himself had risen up against the Crown. The conversations hushed as he passed, and Derek felt their eyes on him like hot brands.

Cora was waiting for him in the antechamber of his rooms. She flew from her chair when he entered and threw her arms around his neck, oblivious to his bloodstains.

“Thank the gods!” She exclaimed, stepping back and holding him at arm’s length to look him over, appearing deeply worried. “Nobody would tell me what was happening, just that assassins had been found in the castle and that you’d been involved somehow. The rumors flying about had me worried half to death.” She paused, observing his state. “Are you injured?”

Derek shook his head, then leaned forward to press his lips against her forehead. “No, I’m unharmed,” he replied. He felt hollow inside, as though his exhaustion had banished all other emotion.

He stepped away and entered his bedchamber with Cora at his heel. He pulled his ruined tunic over his head, his ribs twinging, and tossed it to the floor, then crossed to the shallow wash basin at the side of the room and dipped his hands into the cool water.

“Derek, please, tell me what happened.”

Derek sighed and glanced at his reflection in the mirror hanging above the basin. A nasty bruise had risen on his cheekbone, mottled black and blue shadowing his eye. “Assassins came for the prince,” he said, looking down. “I happened to be nearby and heard the fight, and aided the prince in striking them down, but the prince was grievously wounded. He’s being attended by Lady McCall at the moment.”

Cora raised a hand to cover her mouth as he spoke, shock and horror apparent on her face. “The blood is his, then?” She asked with trepidation heavy in her voice. Derek glanced at her reflection in the mirror and nodded.

“Will he be alright?”

Derek looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingertips across his knuckles and palms to free them from the dried blood as the water quickly turned pink. He reached for the small bar of soap on the edge of the basin and worked it into a thick lather between his palms. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. 

“The assassins,” Cora said after a long moment, “they were killed in the struggle?”

“Most of them. One escaped, however.”

Cora moved to the corner of the room and sat heavily in the chair there. “I see. So that explains the commotion of the guards. They woke us all, pounding on our doors and demanding to search our rooms.”

Derek nodded and reached for a hand towel next to the basin. “The king ordered a thorough search of the castle.”

“What happens if the assassin is not found?”

Derek dried his hands, then noticed he still had blood under his fingernails. He frowned down at them and returned his hands to the basin, reaching for the small brush set to the side of it and running his fingertips against its rough bristles. “I don’t know,” he replied again. “The king might extend the search to the rest of the city, but all we can hope is that it won’t come to that.”

He lost himself to thought as he continued scrubbing. Every time he inspected his hands, he seemed to find another trace of blood he’d missed. It was in the wrinkles on the backs of his knuckles, in the lines on his palms. He frowned and scrubbed harder, disturbing the surface of the water with small splashes, running the brush against his skin until his hands felt raw. Cora approached him and gently laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s okay, brother. I think you’ve gotten it all.”

She picked up the hand towel and dried his hands for him, and Derek noticed they were shaking again. When his hands were dry, Cora dipped the edge of the towel in the basin and held it out for him.

“You’ve got some on your side, where it soaked through your shirt.” 

Derek accepted the towel and dabbed at his ribs, gingerly avoiding the bruise at his side. Cora crossed the room to his wardrobe and pulled a clean tunic from it and laid it out for him across his bed, then did the same with a pair of clean breeches. She returned to the antechamber to give him privacy as he changed.

+++

The night slowly turned to day. Derek had returned to Stiles’s quarters after he’d changed to wait for further news of the prince’s condition. King John had gone to the library to see the scene for himself, and though Derek longed to join the search, to feel useful, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He sat instead at the prince’s writing desk.

A map of the kingdom was stretched across the desktop, weighted down at each corner with various knickknacks. Derek studied it. Stiles had drawn out all three of his campaigns meticulously, notations scrawled in tiny, neat lettering here and there, nestled between a multitude of lines connecting points of interest and towns and tracing out the advances of his company. The delicately dotted lines seemed to represent message routes while thin spidery ones marked supply trains. Little red Xs marked each battleground and Os were used for their camps, and each had a web of lines leading to and away from it in several directions, all apparently making some kind of sense to Stiles.

Derek traced one solid red line with his finger as it zigzagged through a forest and met a red X. A small town once rested there. Derek had passed through it a number of times, traveling between his home and the capital. It had been occupied by their enemies in the second campaign, and they’d burned it to the ground before Stiles’s forces had managed to push that far north. Derek wondered idly what had become of its former occupants, those quaint farmers and tradesmen. Their livelihoods and homes had been destroyed, everything they loved ripped from their possession in a flash. He’d sympathized with them then, but now he wondered if they had felt anything like the hopelessness he felt now. 

He’d lost good men in the fighting. Friends, even, men he’d known for years and had trained with in the courtyards of Treskellia. He’d mourned their loss, felt the brightness of the world dim with their passing. He’d spoken at their funerals, consoled their mothers and wives and children. He wondered what he’d say at Stiles’s funeral, if it came to that, or if he’d be allowed to speak at all. He had no formal relationship with the prince beyond simple friendship. They were allies, that was all. At least that was what Derek tried to convince himself of, but it was futile. He could hide his feelings from the rest of the world, but he couldn’t hide how precious the prince was to him from his own heart.

Scott left in the late hours of the morning, but returned after a short while, dressed in more appropriate clothing. The king returned just after, also dressed. Derek vacated his seat at the desk and returned to the chaise.

“Has the search produced any leads?” Scott asked him.

The king shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The guards located a blood trail in the library that led to its hidden passage behind a bookcase. It’s more evidence that the assassins held intimate knowledge of the castle. They followed the trail but eventually lost it in the maze of passages below the kitchens.”

Scott leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “What happens now?”

The king sat behind the desk, resting his forehead against his curled fingers. “I’ve dispatched the city guard to search the city, with help from the army, but they have much ground to cover and the assassin has a large lead. I’ve also tripled the Royal Guard here in the castle. Two will be posted at each corner at all times, and each guest arriving or departing the grounds will be thoroughly searched.”

Scott nodded, contemplative. “Perhaps when Stiles is well again he’ll be able to give us more details.”

Just then, the door to Stiles’s bedchamber opened. Throughout the night, Lady Melissa’s assistants had indeed left periodically and returned with supplies. They’d carried in fresh towels and more water, pouches of dried herbs and jars of potent salves, and rolls of fresh linen bandages, but offered no updates on the prince’s condition when asked. But now it was the physician herself who stepped out, and her assistants, when they filed out past her, did not return.

Derek’s heart raced in his chest. He’d assured himself ceaselessly that her continued occupancy in Stiles’s room had been a good sign, or at least an indication that the prince was still alive; surely she would have informed them immediately otherwise. But now, Derek’s uneasiness flared up in his chest again at her presence. The blood on her brow had dried and flaked mostly off, and as she entered the room Derek saw that she was wiping her bloodstained hands on a damp cloth. He watched as the clean white of its soft fabric turned rusted brown. She sighed deeply before addressing them.

“The prince’s wound was grievous. Not instantly fatal, but deep and positioned poorly,” she began. Derek’s heart thumped in his chest and he held his breath as he waited for her to continue.

“The knife plunged upward between two of the lower ribs, puncturing his right lung. I surmise the blade must have been rather short not to reach his heart, as well as unserrated, elsewise our prince would never have left the library alive.”

The king straightened, rising halfway from his seat. “But he is alive?” He asked, eyes wide and intent on the physician. Melissa nodded tiredly.

“He lives. He’s lost much blood, which is my largest present concern. I’ve stopped the bleeding for now and closed the wound. He was in and out of consciousness at first, so I administered a sleeping draught to keep him still and numb any pain. Once the bleeding stopped, I gave another dose of the sleeping potion, and I don’t expect him to awaken for at least a day, perhaps two, if he…” she trailed off, but the implication was clear and heavy. _If he lives that long._

“My next concern is infection,” she continued, clearing her throat. “As I’ve said, the wound is poorly positioned. An infection of the lungs would be just as dangerous as the wound itself. I’ll need to monitor him closely in the days ahead.”

The king collapsed in his chair, hanging his head back as he rubbed his hands over his face. “Thank the gods,” he breathed. Melissa gave him a weary smile as he returned his attention to her.

“May I see him?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, you may see him,” she said, stepping aside. The king rose quickly to his feet and made for the door. Melissa crossed to where Derek sat, relief and disbelief warring in him. She sat beside him and gently rested a hand on his forearm.

“You did well to get him to me so quickly, Sir Derek. If you hadn’t, he would never have made it through the night.”

Derek looked up into her kind expression, lost for words. He had no idea how to convey the gratitude he felt for her hard work and dedication toward saving the prince’s life. He settled for a nod and looked down at his hands, observing how they trembled once again. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, looking up at her again. “I owe you an unpayable debt.”

Melissa chuckled and rose to her feet. “You owe me no such thing, Derek. Now go, set your eyes upon him and let that soothe your troubled heart.”

Inside the prince’s bedchamber, the king had occupied a chair Melissa must have dragged up next to the bed. He was leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he observed his son with tenderness. Derek watched him lean forward and pick up his son’s hand, bringing it close and holding it against his lips as he closed his eyes. Derek hovered in the doorway, not wanting to intrude, but as Melissa had suggested, he found he had a need to see the prince’s state for himself.

The bedding had been changed at some point, and a basket piled high with bloodied towels and linen bandages sat nearby. Jars and small bottles from Melissa’s stock littered every available surface, but Derek’s attention was focused wholly on Stiles’s prone form.

He was shirtless, with quilts pulled up to his chest under his arms. The wound across his chest had a thick pad of gauze pressed against it, held in place by strips of linen. More gauze and linen bandages peeked out from above the edge of the quilt. Stiles lay motionless except for the steady, though still shallow, motion of his breathing, his face peaceful and still as he slept. For the first time, Derek noticed the thin cord strung around his neck and the charm that hung on it, resting gently against the hollow of his collarbone. His eyes drank in his prince’s stabilized condition for a long moment, and then Derek released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Satisfied, he turned and made to leave, but the king looked up and called for him.

“Derek, stay a moment.”

Derek turned back into the room and approached the king. King John had dark circles shadowing his eyes, but the worried lines of his face had smoothed out. He regarded Derek solemnly as he approached and stood at the foot of the bed.

“I haven’t had the chance to thank you,” the king said, standing. Derek stared down at his boots.

“Majesty, I haven’t done anything worth thanking me for,” he said quietly. The king reached out and placed both hands on his shoulders, and Derek didn’t know how to read his expression when he finally looked up.

“Nothing could be further from the truth, son” the king said. “Thanks to you, my son is alive right now. That is something I will never forget, nor will I ever manage to repay it.”

Emotion washed over Derek, and he felt at once both infinitely small and as though the room were closing in on him. “If I had been faster, my king, if I’d just been even two minutes earlier to reach him, he would not be in his current state.”

King John regarded him kindly. “Derek, you cannot torture yourself with such thoughts. Neither can you take back what’s happened. But I know in my heart of hearts that were it not for you, my son would have grown cold against the stone floor of the library before any of us had even known what happened.”

Derek stared back, unable to speak, and the king pulled him in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Derek’s shoulders. When he released him, the king gave Derek another small smile.

“Now go, get some rest. When you’ve slept off this cruel night, we’ll dine and watch over him here, and wait for him to awaken.”

Derek nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He bowed and left the room, passing by Scott as he entered to see the prince. His walk back to his chambers passed by him in a daze, and when he reached his bed, he fell into it without undressing or even removing his boots.

+++

A hush had fallen over the castle since the attack. Guests remained largely in their rooms, only venturing out for meals in the great hall where conversation remained muted and strained. Rumors still circulated wildly, though most of the details were now correct. While word had spread of the prince’s survival, knowledge of the rogue assassin kept the nobles in their quarters. Derek wasn’t sure if it was fear that held them there or guilt, but the quiet and empty halls, so unlike the usual bustle of the capital, made him shiver in trepidation every time he ventured from his or Stiles’s quarters.

It was the third day after the attack. Derek spent the majority of his waking hours either in Stiles’s study or at his bedside, holding vigil over the sleeping prince. The king hardly left his son’s side, and when he did, it was only for short stretches to attend other important matters or to sleep.

Lady Melissa spent a great deal of time observing the prince. He’d grown feverish, tossing weakly beneath his covers, tangling in them, his skin flushed and damp with a sheen of sweat, his eyelids fluttering weakly. Melissa mixed herbs and tinctures into draughts that she tipped past his lips, and they seemed to help somewhat, but Derek found his worry would not still abate. Late in the evening on the third day, however, his prince finally awoke.

+++

Flashes of light assaulted Stiles’s mind as he drifted between states of consciousness. Every time he surfaced from the violent dreams that consumed his slumber, a deep ache in his chest stole his breath and forced him back under, like the crashing of a wave overhead. He dreamed of an ocean of blood, of the flashing of a knife through the darkness, illuminated by the moon’s pale light. He was falling, down and down and down, plunging into the depths of some forsaken sea. He drifted through the maze of a kelp forest, felt their snakelike tendrils reach out and thread around his limbs, embracing him and holding him there. He could not breathe, could not scream. Faces drifted past him in the gloom; in the twisting stalks of the weeds he saw the angry smiling eyes of a man whose face was hidden, heard the muted cruelty of his laugh rising and falling like the tide around him. The water warmed, and Stiles stared up as bubbles streamed around him. The sun gleaming brightly at the water’s surface, dappled and rippling, rays of light piercing the water. He reached for it.

He woke as though emerging from a dense fog, his head and body aching. He lay in a soft bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that he was in his own bedchamber. The room was dark, lowly lit by a bed of coals smoldering in the fireplace and by a small lantern sitting at the corner of his desk. The glass doors to his terrace were cracked open slightly, and a gentle breeze rustled the gauzy curtains and made the light of the lantern flicker and dance against the walls.

A form sat at his desk, reading by the dim light. Stiles stared at it until its edges smoothed out, reformed into something recognizable. It was Derek. The unease of Stiles’s nightmares faded from his memory as he gazed at the man, who was lost in some book perched in his lap, his feet kicked up on the edge of the desk. Stiles searched his scrambled mind for words, struggled to form them into shape and speak. His mouth felt as though it were coated with sand. He tried to lift a hand to reach out for him, but his limbs felt heavy as stone.

“Derek,” he finally rasped. Derek’s head snapped up at his soft whisper. He swung his legs down and tossed the book carelessly onto the desk, and was kneeling at Stiles’s side almost before Stiles had noticed he’d moved. He felt Derek’s fingers find his hand and grasp it gently.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he breathed. Stiles stared up at him, feeling fatigue at the edges of his consciousness. Derek looked down at him in the dimness with deep relief, his eyes glassy and his brow knit. His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke.

“Gods, Stiles. I’ve been so worried.”

Stiles gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand. “Should know better than to waste your fear on me,” he huffed out. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Is there water?” 

Derek clambered to his feet and looked around, then retrieved a small flask from a table near the bed and uncorked it. He knelt again and held it to Stiles’s lips, tipping it forward just enough for Stiles to drink. The dryness of his mouth finally eased. Derek stoppered the flask and set it aside when he was done, then reached for his hand again.

The grogginess faded a bit from his mind and Stiles tried to adjust himself under his covers, to move closer to the edge of the bed, closer to Derek. Pain at his small movement erupted along his side and he gasped, wincing, and waited for his breath to return. Derek frowned at him in concern.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to subside. He knew his grip on Derek’s hand was likely painful, but Derek said nothing in complaint. The pain lessened, but a throbbing ache made itself at home in his chest. He lifted his head and a hand and gently raised the edge of the quilt, peering down at himself. His torso was swathed in bandages. A large bruise covered the left side of his ribcage, peeking out from under the linen strips that covered him, fading to ugly yellow at the edges. Stiles took a deep, burning breath before he answered, dropping the blanket and his head back down and glaring into the dim room.

“Yes,” he grit out quietly. “I got fucking stabbed.”

Derek’s answering chuckle at his deadpan delivery was the loveliest thing Stiles had ever heard. He sighed and turned to look up at him. Derek gazed gently back, his thumb rubbing small absentminded circles against the back of Stiles’s fingers, and Stiles decided he didn’t mind the pain so much as long as Derek continued looking at him in such a way. His hair was lank and unkempt and a lock of it hung down over his eyes, and Stiles reached up with his free hand to brush it aside. He trailed his fingertips along Derek’s bruised cheekbone, and Derek leaned into the touch.

“I should notify your father and the physician that you’ve awoken,” Derek said after a long few moments had passed. He made no move to leave, though, and Stiles squeezed his hand.

“How long have I been asleep?” He asked quietly.

“Three days,” Derek answered. “Your wounds were severe. Lady Melissa tended you all through the night after the attack and late into the next morning. It’s thanks to her ministrations that you made it through.”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. “I seem to recall you being the one to drag me through the halls, hollering all the way. It sounds more like it’s thanks to you that I made it through.” His chest ached as he spoke, and he squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of pain washed over him. Derek watched him worriedly.

“Let me fetch her,” he said after a moment. He squeezed Stiles’s hand once more and released it as he rose. “She can give you something for the pain, and I’m sure she’ll want to check your wounds.”

“Just be sure you return with her,” Stiles said, gazing steadily at Derek as he made for the door. Derek turned back to look at him, a small smile on his face.

“I shall, my prince,” he replied.

The darkness of the room loomed around Stiles once he was alone. He felt a deep exhaustion pulling at the edge of his awareness, but the fire in his chest prevented him from giving in to sleep. Every breath he drew ached in a way he’d never considered possible. He was alone for only a short while, but each second seemed to stretch for an eternity with only his pain to keep him company. He watched the lamplight flicker again in the breeze, casting strange shadows on the walls. The shifting shapes seemed to taunt him, somehow. The shadows stretched and grew sinister arms that reached for him, and though the room was silent, he still heard the echoing ghost of laughter.

The door opened again and Stiles was relieved as the shades retreated at Lady Melissa’s presence. His father followed only a step behind and he crossed hurriedly to Stiles’s side.

“My son!” He exclaimed, sitting at Stiles’s side at the edge of the bed. “Thank the gods!”

The king leaned over him, pressing his lips to Stiles’s forehead. It was such a small thing, but Stiles felt a rush of warmth fill him.

“Father,” he replied in greeting. His fingers found his father’s, and the king stared down at him with such tenderness and love that Stiles momentarily forgot his pain, feeling secure under his father’s protective gaze.

“You’ve given us quite the scare,” the king admonished gently. Derek stepped through the doorway then, and Stiles’s eyes tracked his movement as he approached the fire and added fresh wood, stoking it to bring more light to the room. 

“It was never my intention to do so,” Stiles answered, looking back up at the king.

“I know, my son,” the king responded, gently brushing Stiles’s hair back from his forehead.

Melissa approached him then and shoed the king away. She folded down his bedding to inspect him.

“Your wounds were very serious, your Highness,” she explained. She peeled back the linen strips around his chest first, peering down at the wide slash they covered. It was mostly scabbed over now, but stretched nearly from one underarm to the other and was slightly crooked, positioned higher at the right edge than the left.

“And very painful,” Stiles added dryly. Melissa quirked an eyebrow and glanced up at him.

“I’m sure,” she replied. “I’ve prepared a drought for the pain, but it will also cause drowsiness. I’ll administer it shortly. My king, Sir Derek,” she said, beckoning the other men closer. “If you’d be so kind as to help the prince sit up a bit.”

Derek approached him on the left, his father on the right, and they slipped their hands under his shoulders to raise him up and help him lean against the stack of pillows Melissa hurried to arrange behind him. Derek’s fingers were cool against Stiles’s warm skin and left a lingering sensation that traveled up his spine, making him flush more warmly. The sensation lingered, and Stiles focused on it as intently as he could as the pain of his movement flared.

Melissa retrieved a new set of bandages from a stockpile on his desk and returned to his side, then used a small knife to carefully remove the thickly layered linen strips from his torso, deftly slipping them out from under him. Stiles stole a glance down at himself as the wound was revealed. It was smaller than he expected, given the intensity of the pain it caused, not even as long as his little finger. It was delicately sewn shut at the edges, but was red and puckered, swollen and raised between the bumps of two ribs. Stiles leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes, remembering the vicious twist of the knife which inflicted it.

Melissa unscrewed the lid from a small jar and the potent medicinal smell wafted up to him. She scooped out a generous portion and began applying it gently. Stiles hissed at the sting.

“It looks about how I expected it to. I’m still worried about further infection, but I’m pleased so far with your progression,” she said as she prodded at its edges. Stiles grit his teeth against the discomfort.

“A relief to hear,” the king replied, hovering at her shoulder. Derek remained at his opposite side. Melissa nodded once to herself, satisfied, then pressed a fresh pad of thick gauze against it and motioned again for Derek and the king to lift him. She secured the gauze with new strips of linen, winding them around his flank several times, and then Stiles was lowered once more. Melissa left the slash across his chest unbandaged, and then Derek gently pulled the covers back up to his chest. Stiles cast a small, thankful smile toward him, and Derek returned it with a gentle one of his own.

“Your recovery will likely take several weeks, your Highness,” Melissa said as she rose. She carried the used bandages to the fireplace and tossed them into the flames. “And given the injury to your lung, there’s a chance you may find your stamina and athleticism permanently hampered, but only time will tell to what extent.”

Stiles nodded. For now, he was simply grateful to still draw breath at all. “I understand,” he replied. 

Melissa returned to her stock of supplies and retrieved a small glass bottle. She approached his side once more as she uncorked it.

“Something for the pain, as promised,” she said with a small smile. She held the bottle to his lips and tilted it for him to drink. The taste was earthy and bitter, but Stiles drank it gladly. When it was gone, Melissa returned the empty bottle to the desk.

“I’ll need to check your wounds regularly,” she said, “but for now, it’s important you let yourself rest and regain your strength. We’ll leave you in peace.”

She smiled at him in a motherly way and walked toward the door, but a pang of unease jolted through Stiles as Derek and the king made to follow. Stiles sat forward minutely, held back by his pain, and reached out for his father’s arm.

“Please,” he said quietly, ashamed at his own vulnerability. “I don’t - I’d rather not be alone,” he said weakly.

The king gave him a gentle smile, then pulled a chair close to his bedside. “You are not alone, my son,” he replied, settling into it. “And we’ll ensure you remain that way for as long as you need.”

Stiles gave him a grateful look, and relaxed back into the comfort of his bed. His father leaned forward and brushed the hair from his brow again. Derek and Melissa took their leave, and Stiles felt a deep tiredness pulling at him as the discomfort of his injuries faded from his awareness. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the deep embrace of dreamless slumber, reassured by the knowledge of his father’s close guard.

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry for the delay, especially after last chapter's cliffhanger. Until next time though!


	5. Candlelight Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! First let me just say how sorry I am to have left this story on hiatus for so long with no explanation. I'm a healthcare worker, so this whole pandemic has thrown my life for quite a loop, honestly. I also moved and had a few other life changes, so the last few months have been a bit hectic and this wasn't exactly a priority. HOWEVER, this story is still near and dear to my heart, and the feedback y'all have left for me has given me the motivation to find time to continue it. I'm not sure how frequent the updates will be, but please know the next chapter is already well underway, so hopefully I'll have it up for you soon.
> 
> Enjoy!

Derek held his head still as the servant worked his fingers deftly through his hair, holding back a pleased grunt at the sensation. It was late evening, and the sun was sinking slowly over the western horizon. The light filtered through his gauzy curtains at an angle and cast the room with a warm golden red light, bright against Derek’s eyes where it reflected against the surface of his bathwater. The servant behind him scratched his nails over Derek’s scalp one final time, then dipped a small bowl into the water and began rinsing away the soap he’d lathered through Derek’s raven hair. 

Derek’s bath had been arranged in the center of his sleeping quarters. He’d asked for it to be waiting for him after his training in the yard, and the warmth of it was just what his aching muscles needed. He was expected in Stiles’s quarters before long, and it would do him well to show up fresh anyway. 

Bathwater cascaded down his shoulders and chest in a soapy wave and Derek tried to turn his thoughts away from Stiles before his servant witnessed anything embarrassing. It was growing harder to keep the prince from his mind, Derek had found recently. He wanted to blame it on worry over Stiles’s condition, but as more time passed and the prince grew stronger, Derek knew he couldn’t keep fooling himself. His feelings for Stiles were moving beyond simple attraction, and there was nothing Derek could do to resist them creeping further from his control every time Stiles invited him to share dinner in his quarters, or breakfast on his terrace, or to play chess by lamplight until the early hours of the morning. 

Derek suspected the prince was simply lonely, more or less confined to his bed until his strength returned and Lady Melissa saw him fit to return to his duties. As soon as Stiles was back on his feet, he’d be propelled back into the world of his princely responsibilities, and would resume courting. Already, he’d begun holding morning visitations for guests and dignitaries to call upon him before leaving the capital for home. Soon Derek would go back to being a simple comrade to Stiles, an old family friend. The thought made his chest feel tight, and its looming knowledge made him tense. It was why he’d started seeking out the training yard after Lady Melissa gave Stiles his afternoon medicine. Her potions made the prince drowsy, and once asleep, Derek had found himself with too much time to examine how the slope of the prince’s nose made him feel. Action had always been his favored way of distracting himself, so it was with steel in hand that Derek made to drive his foolish thoughts away. 

Scott had humored him the first day; a rusty soldier was as useless as a rusty sword, and he’d welcomed the practice. But Sir Scott was still several years his junior, in both age and experience. Where he was nimble speed and quick feints, Derek was agile power and strategic footwork. Scott was a skilled swordsman, but he was predictable. It took Derek only a short span to see through Scott’s reliable combinations, to pick out his favored feints and turn them aside to open up his vulnerabilities. Even with blunted tourney swords, Scott had walked away with fresh bruises and a wounded pride, despite the rueful smile he still wore. 

“Well at least I know what I need to work on now,” Scott had joked afterwards as he held his sore arm. Four days later, Derek now faced whoever was unlucky enough to be in the training yard when he found free time, as Scott had politely declined his invitations ever since.

A knock on his door drew Derek from his thoughts. “Enter,” he called. His squire Boyd appeared in the doorway, his broad form obscuring the room beyond. 

“You have a visitor, sir,” Boyd said.

Derek frowned. “Who is it?” He asked, dreading the answer. He already had a sneaking suspicion of who it would be.

Boyd frowned back. “It’s… Princess Katherine, sir, with her guards.”

Derek scowled down at his hands under the water. His fingertips were starting to prune.  _ Gods above, _ he thought,  _ when will she take the hint? _ He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his hands over his face before pushing them up through his wet hair.

“Have her wait for me in the solar. I’ll need a moment to dress.”

Boyd nodded and turned on his heel, closing the door behind himself. Derek sighed and rose from the water, rivulets running down his exposed body. He stepped from the wash basin and into a waiting towel held by the servant. He was dried and clothed and made ready in a timely manner, and then Derek found himself approaching Princess Katherine.

His solar was of a similar size to his sleeping quarters; it was large and squarish, decorated with rich tapestries and furnished with stuffed chairs for visitors with a writing desk positioned in one corner. The far wall was lined with windows that let in the blazing sunset. Katherine stood before the leaded glass with her back to the room, silhouetted by the light. A few of her guards stood grouped by the door, exchanging terse words and surly looks with Boyd. Katherine turned as she heard him approach, and looked him up and down appraisingly before smiling at him, the expression sharp in the peculiar reddish light. Derek cleared his throat and nodded toward her.

“Good evening, Princess Katherine. Thank you for waiting.” A small table was arranged against the windows, so Derek pulled out a chair and offered it to the princess. She smiled graciously and accepted, sinking into its plush upholstery gracefully.

“It’s quite alright, Sir Derek. Your apartments have a spectacular view. I quite enjoyed it while I waited.”

Her eyes lingered on him as she spoke, wandering down across his chest. Derek ignored the look and seated himself opposite her and called Boyd over for wine. “I’m pleased you like it. I find myself spending quite a bit of time absorbing the beauty here myself.”

“Surely not,” Katherine replied, leaning forward to rest her chin against her palm. She wore a low cut gown of rich purple satin, and the motion pressed her breasts together, lowering them so they were in Derek’s line of sight anytime he looked at her. “For if that were the case, you’d be spending far more time visiting me in my apartments than you do dodging my invitations.”

Her voice was light, playful almost, but Derek sensed Katherine felt more deeply about his avoidance of her than she let on. In the month since they’d met at Stiles’s homecoming feast, she’d sent him no less than nine invitations to join her for dinner, or tea, or wine, always in her chambers. Derek had politely declined the first few, citing previous obligations, and since the prince’s injury, it was even easier to turn her down, given the amount of time he spent at the prince’s side. He’d seen her in passing a handful of times, but until now, he’d successfully avoided suffering her presence alone. Boyd reappeared with a flagon of wine and a pair of goblets, and he filled and served them, giving Derek a flat look as he did so. Katherine was watching him still, looking up at him through her lashes. 

“I apologize to have appeared so distant, but things have been rather… hectic, to say the least.”

“Yes, the prince’s attack was quite a shock to us all. To think something so violent could happen within the safety of the castle is… distressing, to say the least.”

“I assure you princess, the castle is as safe as can be.”

Katherine leaned back in her chair and waved her hand carelessly, glancing at her guards. “Oh, I’m not particularly worried, personally. But I understand the fear many of the king’s courtiers have. If the king cannot keep even his family safe under his own roof, how is he to show his kingdom he can keep his borders safe?”

Derek frowned. “I think the king is more concerned with his son fully recovering, rather than how the situation appears to the kingdom as a whole.”

“Then he’s a fool,” she said simply, shrugging. She leaned back in her chair, emanating causal elegance as she relaxed into the velvet cushions. “Such crises are a chance to sway public opinion, and what tool could be more useful for an embattled king?”

Derek fidgeted with the stem of his goblet, twisting it between his fingertips. Beyond the glass, the light deepened to a fiery red as the sun nearly sank beneath the foothills. The light refracted off the crystal facets of their goblets, showering the tabletop with rainbow sparks.

“The people love and respect King John,” he replied after a moment.

“Love and respect quickly turn to ash in the mouths of hungry commoners. How will they feel when their fields are barren and their houses burned to the ground around them? How will they feel when his weakness permits war to appear on their doorsteps?”

“Forgive me, Princess, but I don’t quite follow. What war are you speaking of?”

Katherine tossed her artful curls over her shoulder and took a moment before answering. “A hypothetical one, of course. I may be a foreigner to this country, but I’ve already seen three wars in as many years. If the unrest is not put to a stop, how much longer can the kingdom last before cracks in old allegiances begin to form?”

“You think Beacon is heading toward full-blown civil war,” Derek said flatly, watching her over the rim of his goblet.

Katherine gave him a level look and took a sip of her own wine. “You say that like you think I wish for it, Sir Derek,” she said. “I assure you, I only speak from a place of concern.”

“Princess, I can’t say what tomorrow holds for this kingdom, but I do know that King John is a strong leader, and will find a way to keep his people together.”

Katherine leaned forward and reached across the small table to lay her hand over Derek’s. Derek’s heart hammered in his chest and he struggled to keep his revulsion hidden. 

“I respect your loyalty to your king, Sir Derek. It’s very commendable. You are a good man.”

“I only do my duty, Princess, but you are kind to say so,” Derek replied. Her boldness shocked him. He dearly wished to snatch his hand away, to throw the princess from his quarters and her guards out after her, to scream into her face that he wanted nothing to do for her, but his ingrained decorum prevented him from allowing his discomfort to so obviously show. Instead, Derek slipped his hand free under the guise of lifting his goblet to take another drink. 

Katherine relaxed back into her chair and sipped at her wine as she watched the sun finish setting. Boyd moved to light a fire and a few candles as the light began to fade, but Derek called to him.

“Leave the candles be, Boyd, I won’t be dining here tonight.”

Boyd stilled, glancing between Derek and the princess, then returned to his post by the door. “As you say, sir.”

Katherine smiled slowly. “I take it you have previous plans for dinner then? And here I had hoped I’d finally trapped you into joining me for a meal.”

Derek grimaced. “Unfortunately I do have other plans, princess. Prince Stiles has invited me to dine with him tonight in his quarters.”

Katherine raised one perfect eyebrow. “Oh? How intimate. I would have guessed the prince would spend his recovery getting to know his suitors better, such as my niece.”

“I’m sure Prince Stiles will not neglect your niece, nor his other suitors, princess. He just needs his rest at the moment.”

“Of course he does,” she replied, standing. She smoothed her hands down the front of her bodice, drawing Derek’s attention to her curves. “Well I wouldn’t want to keep you to keep from the prince,” she said. “Do give him my regards.”

“I shall,” Derek responded, standing as well. He watched Katherine as she floated gracefully toward the exit. In the doorway, she turned to look at him over her shoulder. 

“I look forward to our next meeting, Sir Derek,” she said with a small smile, “try not to keep me waiting too long.”

And then she was gone, saving Derek from having to think of something pleasant to reply. Boyd closed the door softly behind her, then whistled lowly as he turned to face Derek.

“That one is something else,” he said simply. Derek could do nothing but laugh at his appraisal.

“But just  _ what _ else, exactly?” He wondered aloud. Katherine was certainly forward, which Derek was unaccustomed to, but something deeper about her sat wrong with Derek, though he struggled to put his finger on it.  _ A puzzle for another time _ , he thought to himself.

+++

The days passed in a blur for Stiles. At first, he spent only short stretches of time lucid, awake and alert long enough only to sip at water and choke down a few spoonfuls of warm broth before the embrace of Lady Melissa’s medicines pulled him back into dreamless sleep. The physician spent much of her time at his bedside, along with his father, Sir Scott, and, of course, Sir Derek. Stiles caught their faces in snatches, as well as a whirling cast of visitors and well-wishers who only vaguely imprinted in his memories of his semi-conscious rousings. He was aware enough of his injuries to notice that as every day passed, a little less blood stained the bandages Melissa meticulously stripped away from his side and changed. 

The constant breathtaking ache of his wounds eased slowly. After a week, Stiles was finally awake more often than not, and was able to sit up on his own, though only slowly and with abundant care. Sitting up eventually turned into standing, then into short walks to the privy or out onto the terrace. After a fortnight, Melissa began weaning him from her medicinal teas. They tasted awful, like earth and wet grass steeped in strong spirits, but he appreciated the dreamless sleep they offered. 

As much as Stiles hated being essentially bedridden, his situation had provided him an unexpected luxury: an unprecedented amount of time with Sir Derek. While his injuries and all the discomforts they provided were unpleasant to say the least, Derek had proven a steadfast companion. Sir Scott was as close to a brother as Stiles had ever had, and he greatly enjoyed Scott’s lighthearted optimism at his bedside, from which Scott was never far. But it was Derek’s visits that Stiles looked forward to with almost inappropriate longing. It shamed him to think of how often the man occupied his thoughts, given his obligations to his suitors - one of whom was Derek’s own sister - but he couldn’t help his fascination. Derek was only familiar to him in some ways, and a stranger still in others. Stiles had known Derek as a child, but he’d found he quite enjoyed getting to know who Derek was as a man. 

Currently, Stiles was reclined in his bed against a mound of pillows. A fire blazed in the hearth at the far side of the room, but it had been a warm evening and Stiles had left the glass doors of his terrace open to the night after watching the sunset there with Princess Allison over a glass of wine. On a table near the door, a platter had been arranged with food for dinner later, along with a flagon of wine. A pleasant breeze gently disturbed the curtains as a knock at the door drew Stiles from his reverie.

“Enter,” Stiles answered. As if drawn by Stiles’s thoughts, it was Sir Derek who stepped through his doorway. Stiles warmed at his own foolishness; he’d invited the man after all, of course he’d come. A servant stepped through behind him, then approached the table laden with food and began preparing their meals.

“Sir Derek,” Stiles said, after clearing his throat. “I’m pleased you saw fit to humor me by accepting my invitation for dinner, yet again.”

A small smile ghosted over Derek’s lips before he dipped his head in a shallow bow. “My prince,” he said in greeting. He was dressed simply, his hair still damp from a recent bath. “As ever, I’m pleased you saw fit to humor me with an invitation in the first place.” 

He moved through the room to a nearby chair and lifted it effortlessly, bringing it closer to the bed. Stiles watched him as he went, trying to note all the small details that made up the man as a whole. He dragged his eyes down the lines of Derek’s body, considering. Did Derek know the way Stiles’s heart fluttered every time he replied so easily to his banter? 

Stiles hurriedly looked down at his hands, picking at the skin of his cuticles as Derek approached his side and arranged himself comfortably.

“So,” Stiles said with mock enthusiasm after a moment, “what news awaits me from the greater world?”

Derek raised an eyebrow and snorted, settling against the stuffed arm of his chair and leveling Stiles with a flat look. “Is it news you’re after or gossip?”

Stiles tried his best to look hurt. “You wound me. Why would I be interested in the petty moonlight comings and goings of Lady Heather’s secret lover?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “How can it be a secret if everyone knows it’s that stable hand Greenberg?”

“But do we  _ truly _ know that though, Derek?”

The servant interrupted whatever Derek meant to reply when he arrived at Stiles’s bedside bearing his dinner. His meal was balanced on a tray that the servant set precariously over Stiles’s lap, its wooden legs wobbly against the shifting softness of his quilts. Stiles steadied the tray while the servant returned to bring him his wine, then repeated the entire process for Derek, setting his portions on the small accent table next to Stiles’s bed. Derek thanked him, and then the servant disappeared from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“How are you feeling this evening?” Derek asked after a few moments of quiet consumption. Stiles swirled his wine around in his goblet before answering.

“Oh, stronger than yesterday, weaker than tomorrow,” he replied nonchalantly. “I hope, anyway.”

Derek gave him an unimpressed look. “A relief to hear,” he said sarcastically.

Stiles scoffed and sipped at his wine. “Lady Melissa thinks I’m about ready to resume my duties. She’s limiting the medicinal draughts to only one dose per day now.”

“That certainly sounds like improvement,” Derek replied.

“My father would like me to be present when Princess Allison departs the castle in a few days. He thinks the people need to see me back on my feet and in public again. Apparently rumors of my death abound among the common folk.”

Derek hummed and took another bite of his food, then washed it down with a sip of wine. “I’m sure your father will be relieved to see you back on your feet and resuming your duties normally as well,” he suggested.

Stiles smiled. “I’ll just be grateful to be out of this damned room at last.”

“Yes,” Derek drawled over the rim of his goblet, “taking all your meals in bed and all your visits on the balcony is just terrible.”

“Speaking of the balcony,” Stiles said, waving his hand and ignoring Derek’s jab entirely, “did you by chance glimpse the sunset tonight? I watched from the balcony tonight. It was truly magnificent.”

Derek rolled his eyes as he drank another sip. It was a small motion, but Stiles still noticed it, watching as carefully as he was. 

“What?” He asked, sensing a forthcoming story. He was desperate to know about the greater goings-on of the castle. “What is it?”

Derek set his goblet aside and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I did watch the sunset, my prince, but with rather… unusual company.”

Stiles shifted under his tray, turning to face him a little better. “Oh do tell. This sounds like even better gossip than Lady Heather’s.”

Derek shot him a glare, but it lacked any true heat. “It was Princess Katherine, of all people,” he answered finally.

What Stiles knew of Princess Katherine was mostly secondhand, having only met her a handful of times at feasts and in short audiences. His time away from home on the frontlines had kept him from experiencing the force of her personality often, though he’d heard stories. Derek had spent even less time exposed to her, and his homeland and hers held longstanding hostilities, despite the tenuous relationship between Argenta and Beacon as a whole. It was strange to imagine a connection between them.

But the princess was pretty, that much Stiles remembered. Knights and lords fawned over her, doted on her with gifts of fine jewelry and pledges of valor in her honor at tournaments. From the gossip, she’d taken a few to bed, but none drew her favor long term.

“Princess Katherine?” Stiles repeated dumbly. 

Derek nodded. “She’s sent me a number of invitations for dinner since your welcoming feast. Apparently she grew tired of waiting for me to come to her. She arrived tonight quite unannounced, and we shared a glass of wine in my solar.”

Stiles heart thumped in his chest as he considered the reasons for such a visit. It dawned on him then, not for the first time, that Derek was a wealthy and attractive young noble, who, to some, would appear in need of a spouse. 

“Invitations? To what end?” Stiles asked. He managed to keep his voice level somehow, and casually prodded at a stray blueberry with his fork. Derek shrugged, picking at his own food.

“She’s hinted at interest in courting. To be honest, it’s the furthest thing from my mind-”

Whatever Derek said next was lost to Stiles. He heard Derek speaking still, but it sounded distant to his ears.  _ Interest in courting _ . It was none of his concern who Derek courted. It was certainly not his place to have such a visceral reaction to the mere suggestion. With tremendous effort of will, Stiles forced himself to take a deep breath and reach for his wine.

“-better prepare our armies.” Derek finished. Stiles nodded along as if he’d heard more than the first six words.

“I gather you’ve so far declined her invitations, then?” He asked tightly once Derek had finished, grasping for something, anything to say. The air seemed thicker than he remembered it being a moment ago.

Derek gave him a funny look, but it passed quickly, replaced by a small, amused smile. “I suppose I’m just not interested in humoring her,” he replied lightly. Stiles heart thumped in his chest and he couldn’t keep the answering smile from his face. He leaned forward and set his tray aside, keeping only his wine glass close as he readjusted against his pillows. His side twinged dully as the skin stretched with the movement.

“Speaking of Argentan princesses, you’re not alone in having watched the sunset over a glass of wine with one.”

“Oh?” Derek said, an eyebrow raising. “And how is Princess Allison?”

“She is well, though dismayed by her upcoming trip home,” Stiles replied. “I’ve enjoyed coming to know her. Despite the unpleasantness of her aunt, Princess Allison has been a pleasure to host.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment before responding. Stiles felt every fraction of every second slip by as he waited for Derek to say something. He snuck a look at the other man from the corner of his eye and saw Derek peering down into his wine goblet, a frown knitting his brows together. 

“I’m pleased to hear that, my prince,” Derek said finally. Stiles breathed out a slow breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.  _ What was I waiting for? _ he wondered silently. A mild disappointment curled around his heart.

He’d found himself wondering over the last few weeks why Derek was always so quick to accept his invitations, why he was always so close by whenever Stiles sought his company. They were friends, but it was different between them than it was between Stiles and Scott. He was Derek’s prince, so maybe it was loyalty, but that did not explain the heartfelt laughter Derek shared with him, the quiet revelations and private jokes traded by firelight in the dark hours of the night. Loyalty did not explain the way Derek’s eyes had always lingered on his bare chest when Melissa deemed fit to change Stiles’s bandages before company. It did not explain the softness of Derek’s touch the first night Stiles had awoken, the gentleness with which he’d held Stiles’s hand. 

Derek’s oppositional nature baffled Stiles. As a child, he’d been serious and studious, but now he cleverly returned Stiles’s banter with ease. He was a respected military commander, had won hard-fought battles and driven enemies back with the bloodied edge of his sword, and yet he’d also maintained a tenderness when he’d held Stiles that flew in the face of his outward aloofness. 

Though he could not yet bring himself to admit it, Stiles desperately hoped the answer was attraction. But neither did that explain why Derek’s eyes always shifted away first when their gazes held for a moment too long. It did not explain Derek’s polite and supportive interest in the well-being of his suitors, or in the progress of Stiles’s courtships with them.

Stiles cut his eyes away and gazed out at the night through the terrace doors. Absently, he found himself recounting his evening with Lady Allison to Derek, more out of a desire to fill in the silence than anything else. Derek, as always, listened attentively, commenting when appropriate, posing questions to steer Stiles back to the subject when his mind wandered.

They drained their goblets, and Derek retrieved the flagon to refill them. His fingertips brushed against Stiles’s as Stiles passed his over, then again when it was returned. 

“I’ve heard talk of the preparations for the spring festival,” Derek said after a time. “Your court seems excited about it, at any rate. Something positive to look forward to after the turmoil of recent weeks.” 

The night beyond the windows had darkened, deepening as the hours slipped by. The stars shone out brightly, glittering against the heavens, and the moon shone ghostly pale behind a thin veil of drifting clouds. Stiles looked to Derek as he stifled a yawn.

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “I’m looking forward to it as well. My father wished for me to have a stronger hand in the arrangements, but --” he gestured down at himself, “--I’ve been in no position to offer much input. My father says Lady Ramsey, our Master of Culture, is doing a splendid job on her own, as she always has. Though the Master of Coin is a bit perturbed by the expenses, as he always is.”

Derek chuckled. “What good is a Master of Coin if he doesn’t keep track of the coins? I’d be a bit perturbed if  _ he _ wasn’t perturbed.”

Stiles smiled. “Well, yes, he is nothing if not rigorous in his balancing of the books, so to speak.” He fell quiet as a sudden thought struck him. “They are planning a tournament for the last few days of the festival, as is tradition. Will you be participating?”

Derek took a sip of his wine, contemplative. “To be honest, I was not planning on it. I feel I’ve seen enough of the real thing to avoid playing at war games. But Cora has been badgering me to participate. It’s been years since she attended a royal tourney, and she wishes to cheer me on like old times.”

“Which events would you join?” Stiles asked, excitement stirring him. He’d seen Derek ride at tourney only once, during the celebrations for his fourteenth birthday. Derek had performed admirably, taking high standings in both the sword and the joust, though he did not claim titles in either. It would be a joy to watch him again, to cheer him on from the royal gallery.

“Likely just the sword, this year,” Derek answered. “The joust might be more prestigious, but I’d run the risk of inflaming old battle wounds. My shoulder hasn’t been the same since our first campaign.” As he said it, he reached up and rubbed absentmindedly at his right shoulder. “Same with the melee,” he continued. “I must admit I’m not fond of the idea of being trampled underfoot by some overzealous squire in pursuit of false glory.”

Stiles chuckled at the imagery. “Understandable, good sir, though I must admit I’m a bit disappointed I will not have the pleasure of watching you unhorse a few trumped up hedge knights.”

Derek smiled down at his goblet. “You’ll have to make do with the pleasure of watching Sir Scott unhorse them instead, I suppose.”

“As long as you’ll join me to watch from the gallery, then I could probably live with that,” Stiles replied easily. Derek’s gaze flicked up to his for a brief moment, then away.

“I’d be honored to join you in the gallery, my prince,” he replied after a moment.

Not for the first time, Stiles wished he could read the man’s mind. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Speaking of Sir Scott, he’s told me you’ve been training rather frequently in the yard. Honing your skills for the sword, I take it?”

Derek hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be facing some of the most finely trained knights in the kingdom in the ring, rather than just armed farmers and roving sellswords defending treasonous lords. It can never hurt to be as prepared as possible.”

Stiles nodded, understanding. The strength of their foes on the battlefield had largely been due to their numbers rather than extensive training. 

“Sir Scott tells me you’re about as sharp as can be. He’s a capable swordsman himself, and though he won’t admit it, you left his pride quite wounded. He says other men in the training yard have started avoiding you due to your ferocity.” 

Derek ducked his head, the tips of his ears turning red. Stiles had meant it in jest; while Scott had indeed told him stories of Derek’s skill with a blade, he certainly had not meant to embarrass the man. He quickly made to apologize, but Derek waved his hand dismissively.

“I must admit a certain level of embarrassment over my bout with Sir Scott. It was the first time since leaving the frontlines that I’d picked up a sword with the intent to use it, and I suppose the desperation of battle is a bit engrained, at this point.”

Stiles reached over and patted Derek’s arm in reassurance. “Well I’m sure it’ll come in handy during the tourney. Think nothing of it though, it’s lit a fire under Scott to improve himself, which all good knights need.”

Perhaps it was the wine, of which Stiles had consumed several goblets of, or maybe the lateness of the hour, but he found it comfortable to leave his hand on Derek’s forearm. Derek’s chair was pulled close to the left side of his bed and he’d progressively been leaning in closer and closer as the night wore on. Perhaps he also felt the influence of the wine, but Stiles would not have mentioned it to him either way. He could feel the warmth of Derek’s skin through the quilted sleeve of his doublet, could feel more easily the rumble of his laughter as the night wore on.

A servant had come through several hours prior to light the room with candles, and they’d grown short as the hours passed, wax dripping down their sides. They talked about everything that came to mind, but also nothing in particular at the same time, all while the candles began sputtering around them and the fire burned down to smoldering coals. A faint breeze stirred the curtains through the open terrace door, and Stiles found himself almost dozing off mid-sentence.

He made to apologize for his exhaustion, though he hated the thought of Derek taking it as a sign to leave. But when he looked over again at his companion, he found Derek had already succumbed to his own tiredness, his chin tucked against his chest as he breathed slowly and evenly. There was hardly enough light left in the room to make out the details of Derek’s features, but Stiles still looked, his eyes drinking in the sight of Derek so at peace. He longed to rouse him, to convince him to kick off his boots and find comfort at his side beneath the quilts, but he feared Derek would balk at the offer. So he just looked instead, as a small hollow in his chest stretched tightly against the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

Stiles adjusted himself carefully against the pillows, shifting closer to the edge of the bed and curling toward the other man, resting against his uninjured side and ignoring the dull ache in his ribs. He reached forward and carefully lifted Derek’s empty goblet from his hand and leaned over to set it gently on the floor next to his chair, then relaxed back against the cushions. He hesitated, then slowly reached his hand back out to rest against Derek’s forearm, smiling despite himself as Derek murmured something unintelligible in his sleep. Stiles fought against his own exhaustion, wishing to savor this small moment as long as possible, but eventually, and quite without him realizing it, sleep quietly claimed him as well.

+++

Derek woke slowly, fighting against the drowsiness he felt with every step toward wakefulness. His neck ached, his shoulder felt cramped, and his left foot was asleep. He shifted against the vertical cushioned back of his chair, wishing vaguely for the comfort of his pillows and quilts, when the realization washed over him.

His eyes flew open, adrenaline coursing through him as he took in the prince’s room around him. The light slanting in through the terrace was pale and golden, the sun just peeking above the horizon. Derek sat forward heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face and raking his fingers through his hair.

The impropriety of his actions weighed heavily on him. It was beyond inappropriate to fall asleep in the crown prince’s chambers in such a way. He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him. There had been a breeze across his face, it had tickled as his hair fluttered, he thought, but now the terrace doors were closed. He remembered them being opened to the warm evening the night before. He hoped a sudden wind had sucked them shut, but he had no way of knowing. The knowledge that a servant may have entered and seen him made him feel sick to his stomach. His presence here would shame the prince, surely the castle would talk and rumors would fly.

Beside him, the prince stirred briefly before settling again, shifting against his pillows. Derek turned and gazed at him, and the worry swirling around his thoughts melted away momentarily. The prince was beautiful. There was no denying such a simple fact. The early morning painted his features with a gentle golden light, softening the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was mussed, tousled and messy from sleep. Before he could stop himself, Derek reached out and gently brushed a lock of it from his forehead. He remembered the prince doing the same for him, the night he finally awoke after the assassination attempt. It had been strangely reassuring to Derek then, and returning the action now eased the shame he felt at his voyeurism. 

The prince was lying on his uninjured side facing him, one arm curled under his pillows and the other hanging over the edge of the bed. He’d placed a hand on Derek’s arm the night before, and, to Derek’s pleased astonishment, left it there as though he hadn’t even noticed the contact. Derek’s face warmed as he imagined the prince holding his hand against Derek’s arm through the night, and his guilt eased somewhat. The prince would’ve asked him to leave if he hadn’t wanted him there, and yet he hadn’t. Derek wasn’t sure what that meant, but it pleased him nonetheless. 

Still though, his honor wouldn’t let him stay any longer, to intrude on the prince’s slumber in such a way. He let his eyes roam over Stiles’s sleeping form once more, then pushed himself to his feet and quietly made his way to the door. The prince’s solar was empty, thankfully, and Derek slipped into the hallway as surreptitiously as possible, smoothing the wrinkles from his tunic as best he could. The hallways were blessedly empty this early in the morning, save for a few servants scurrying this way and that, but none paid him much mind as he approached his rooms. 

Boyd was already awake, sitting at the small table against the windows and sipping tea. He looked up when Derek entered and raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no comment other than to wish him a good morning. Derek returned the sentiment and retired to his sleeping quarters. He shucked his clothing and crawled into bed, still exhausted. He’d likely only gotten a couple hours of rest, uncomfortable as he was in that chair, and sleep came to him easily. He drifted off imagining the slip of Stiles’s hair through his hands, picturing how it would feel to be curled up next to the prince in his bed, drifting away with their arms entwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story this far, only two more chapters to go! See y'all next time!


	6. Untangling the Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope everyone is doing well and staying safe in this trying time. Finally finished this chapter and I’m so excited we only have one more to go! I hope you all enjoy!

The day was warm and the sun was unbearably bright against Stiles’s eyes. Sweat beaded his brow and he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. At his side, Sir Scott gave him a concerned look, but Stiles ignored him. His quilted doublet felt too tight around him, it’s collar too high. His chest ached, but he fought the instinct to press his hand against his healing wound. He was here as a show of fortitude, a display to give his people peace of mind as they saw Princess Allison safely on her journey home. His side ached from standing at attention for so long. He hadn’t anticipated this well-wishing to be such an event, but his father had turned it into a spectacle. It wasn’t every day Argentan royalty departed the royal city, nor was it every day the crown prince returned to his royal responsibilities after an attempted assassination. He had a duty to perform, and expectations to uphold. Stiles straightened his aching shoulders and tried his best to appear strong and healthy.

They were standing at the top of the stone staircase leading up to the castle’s grand entrance. The huge, ornate doors were thrown wide open, and bannermen and nobles lined the staircase as it descended, watching as history unfolded. His father, King John, had addressed the gathered nobles in a short speech, then he’d turned his attention to a bashful Princess Allison, who no doubt had not expected such fanfare. She’d held his attention gracefully, however, thanking him profusely for his hospitality and expressing her strong desire to host them at Argenta some day in turn. It was all very formal and heartwarming, but Stiles had seldom been away from his bed for so long since his injuries, and standing so long was quickly sapping his strength. Again, he straightened from his unintentional slouch and fixed a smile on his features as his father and the princess finished exchanging pleasantries.

The king led Princess Allison over to Stiles, and he offered his arm to her. This was the final, most strenuous part of his ordeal; he was to lead her down the great stone steps and into an awaiting carriage, which they would both take to the city gates where her entourage of guards would be waiting to take over as her protective guard and see her safely home. 

Allison slipped her arm through his and they began their descent. The princess wore a beautiful gown of silver silk with a full skirt layered with lace and satin. He thanked the gods she’d dressed so elaborately, for it gave him a reason to take the stairs slowly and with great care.

“Are you alright, Prince Stiles?” Allison asked quietly, casting a sidelong look his direction. Stiles grimaced, then, remembering their audience, tried to turn it into a grin.

“Of course, princess, but I do thank you for your concern,” he replied. The princess hummed under her breath, not quite believing him.

“You look pale,” she commented after they’d traversed a few more steps.

“I’m always pale,” he countered. She grinned and chuckled, but her grip on his arm tightened as he nearly stumbled at the next step. She swept out her skirts and dipped precariously to one side, then righted herself with a self-conscious smile. A few titters emerged from the crowd. From their perspective, it would appear as though she had stumbled, and that Stiles had helped hold her steady. Immense gratitude washed over him, and he cast her a grateful look. She beamed back at him, beautiful as always.

Finally they reached the bottom of the steps, and a steward held open the carriage door as they approached. Stiles held Allison’s hand and helped her up into the interior, though she mostly managed it on her own. Then he followed, gripping the side of the door and hoisting a leg up to propel himself inside. The wound at his side protested, but he forced himself through the discomfort. The door shut behind him, and finally he was able to relax against the upholstered interior away from the harsh glare of the sun.

The princess leaned from the open carriage window and waved to the gathered crowd as the carriage began rumbling away from the castle entrance, then relaxed back opposite Stiles to fix him with a critical stare.

“So,” she began. “Tell me truly. How are you feeling?”

Stiles sighed and pressed a hand to his side. “Like I’ve just been stabbed anew,” he said honestly. He felt short of breath from their brief walk, every breath like sucking in fire. Allison gave him a pitying look.

“I’m sorry they made you stand in for this ordeal. I had no idea that it would be such an event.”

Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “My father knows this is a rare occasion. Argentan royalty visiting Beacon? Almost unheard of. But Argentan royalty  _ leaving _ Beacon a stronger friend than they arrived? Now that’s just downright historic. The tension between our lands has existed for too long for him to not make a spectacle of it.”

“Tension that I hope will someday be evaporated entirely,” Allison said with a small smile. Stiles returned it and agreed. “I have greatly enjoyed my stay here, Prince Stiles. Your home is beautiful, and I’ll miss it dearly.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Princess. My greatest hope is to host you again, and to visit Argenta myself sometime.”

Allison beamed back at him.

The carriage ride was bumpy as they continued down the cobbled streets of Beacon. Commoners lined up along the road, waving and throwing fresh cut flowers across their path. A few were thrown closely enough that Stiles managed to catch one as he leaned from the window to wave and greet his people. It was a pretty bloom of pink and yellow, with dark spots on some of the petals. Stiles handed it across to Allison.

“The name of it escapes me at the moment, but that flower represents friendship. It’s a common one to give to those that you would seek a deeper companionship with. Fitting, I think.”

“Alstroemeria,” Allison responded with a smile, stroking one long petal with her fingertip. “Fitting indeed.”

Finally their procession reached the outer wall of the city. Just beyond the gates, Princess Allison’s retinue of guards awaited. Stiles remembered the reports he’d heard of their number, but was still shocked to find a good sixty or so Royal Agentan Guard standing at attention to receive them. It reassured him, though, to know his new friend would be well protected on her long journey home. 

The carriage rumbled to a halting stop, and a steward opened the door for him. Stiles sucked in a deep breath and stepped out into the bright sunlight, then turned and offered his hand to help the princess down. A number of townsfolk had gathered at the gates to see the princess off, and they cheered and whistled as Stiles escorted her to the head of her entourage. 

His side still ached, but he ignored his own discomfort as he greeted the man who stepped forward to meet them. “Captain Thomas,” he said in greeting, “I’ve heard good things about you and your men. I trust you’ll see the princess home to Argenta safely and expediently.”

Captain Thomas was a stout main with short blond hair. His silver inlaid armor gleamed in the midday sun as he smiled at Stiles and nodded deferentially to him and then offered a deep bow toward Allison.

“Of course, Prince Stiles. My life belongs to the Crown, and I would lay it down gladly to protect the princess if the situation called for it. No finer soldiers exist than those you see gathered here today.”

Stiles grinned and slipped his arm free of Allison’s to clap the man on the shoulder. “I should think our Beacon soldiers could give them a run for their money, not that I’d ever like to see such a day.”

“Nor would I,” the captain replied with a smile. He turned toward Allison and bowed again. “Highness, it would serve us best to get on the road soon, else we will not make the next town before nightfall.”

Allison nodded, then turned toward Stiles and clasped both his hands in hers. “Truly, Prince Stiles, I have enjoyed my time here beyond measure, and I pray to see the relationship between our countries continue to improve. Thank you so much for hosting me with such graciousness and generosity, I look forward to returning the welcome someday.”

“It has been an honor, Princess, and I look forward to such a day as well. Be well on your journey home.”

She leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then turned and followed the captain to her awaiting carriage. With his own royal guard flanking him, Stiles stood and watched as Princess Allison’s procession began their descent down the low hill Beacon rested upon, a hand raised in farewell.

The cool interior of his carriage was a welcome relief when he finally reentered it. He dumped himself into his seat and sighed, then nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he had a visitor.

“Your Highness, I apologize for my intrusion, but I hoped to speak with you privately.”

Councillor Morrell was a young woman with dark skin and darker hair, which hung down past her shoulders in a straight curtain. She had a slender figure and fine features. Stiles was hard pressed to notice any resemblance to her brother, Deaton.

“Of course, Councillor. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you for some time. The investigation of my assassination attempt has come to a standstill for lack of evidence. I’ve been hoping you might illuminate the subject.”

Her presence here baffled him. She was a slippery target to pin down for audience, never in her quarters or office but always ‘around’ somewhere, according to Deaton. The mystery surrounding the assassins in the library had been driving him mad. The black-clad figures haunted his dreams, but his waking hours offered no respite since no answers could be found.

Of the attackers slain, no one claimed to recognize them or have any affiliations with them. No one could answer how the assassins entered the castle or knew of the secret passageways in the walls. They could speculate, but without further evidence they could take no further action toward pursuing justice.

Councillor Morrell smiled thinly at him, and suddenly Stiles saw the resemblance to her brother. It was something in the way the smile did not quite reach her eyes. It made him feel a bit like a child being scolded, rather than a crown prince being met by one of his advisors.

“Unfortunately, Your Highness, I cannot offer firm proof or irrefutable evidence of any particular hand in the plot.”

Stiles fought to keep the disappointment from his face, and was about to respond when Morrell continued.

“However, I do have suspicions, and I waited to bring them to you or the king until today because I wanted to confirm them.” She paused a moment and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as the carriage rumbled down the road. “Did you by chance count the number of soldiers in Princess Allison’s entourage?”

Stiles frowned. “No. Or rather, not in detail. There appeared to be around sixty or so, to my eye.”

Morrell nodded. “Yes, fifty seven to be exact. I know you were away from the capitol when her party arrived, but I was not. With such a large group of soldiers coming into the city, and them being from a nation with a history of hostility against ours, I thought it prudent to keep an eye on them while they were here. As you can imagine, being only one woman, it was impossible to keep close track on all of them the whole time, though my aides and spies helped somewhat in that regard. I do however find it highly suspicious that upon leaving our city their numbers appear a little light. You were attacked by four armed, unknown men, three of which were slain while the fourth somehow escaped. I think it an odd coincidence that the princess’s procession matches these numbers.”

Stiles’s frown deepened as he considered her words. It was true that the tension between their countries had caused Stiles to consider Argenta as a strong contender for being behind the attack, but Allison had seemed just as shocked and concerned over it as anyone else had. Why would she knowingly bring attackers into his home only to work so hard at building their friendship?

“As to that, I can only guess the young princess did not bring them in knowingly, Your Highness,” Morrell replied.

Stiles shook himself from his thoughts as he realized he’d been speaking them aloud. He hated think now that Argenta might have been responsible, but the numbers certainly cast their old enemy in an unforgiving light.

“It’s just as possible though that one of our northern enemies could have been behind the attack though, is it not?”

Morrell pursed her lips and looked at him thoughtfully. “My brother advised me of your own suspicions about the northern rebellions and how they were financed. I think it likely that a country as rich in natural resources as Argenta could be behind those as well, wouldn’t you say?”

“But to what end? To merely sow discord among our people? Weaken us from within? Then why send the heir to their throne into the middle of it all?”

Morrell brushed her hands across her knees as she leaned back, smoothing away the wrinkles in the fabric of her dress. “As to that, I cannot say. My spies have had little luck in bringing me intelligence from beyond the Silver Mountains.”

Stiles sighed and gazed out at the city as they passed through it. The crowds had mostly dispersed, and the flowers they’d strewn along the path were trampled and muddy. 

“What do you know of our prisoner of war, the former Lord Myers? Has he broken his silence?”

Morrell gave him a strange look. “Your Highness, Lord Myers is dead. They found him dead the morning after your attack. Apparently he grew a second smile across his throat in the night.”

Stiles went very still as confusion and anger washed over him. Why hadn’t someone informed him of such an event? Myers was their only lead in untangling this mess. Morrell must have seen the turmoil in his expression, for her own softened as she spoke again.

  
“The king felt it prudent to keep his death quiet. I imagine he did not want to upset your recovery by burdening you with further reports of violence inside the castle walls.”

“I had a right to know. Myers was  _ my _ prisoner. I cut down uncountable enemies to reach him and take him alive. He held the key to unraveling this whole mystery, I knew it in my bones. I brought him here to talk, not to be tortured to death or be given the means to end his own life, as so many of our other rebellious enemies did to avoid justice.”

“An understandable position, Your Highness. I cannot speak to the wisdom of your father’s decision, but I know he would have only done so to protect you.”

The carriage rumbled to a stop at the grand steps of the castle. A steward swung the door open and Stiles fought to keep the storm of emotions from his face. He pushed himself from his seat and clambered down, then turned to offer his hand to Councillor Morrell, but she declined with a shake of her head.

“I thank you, Prince Stiles, but I would rather disembark in the quiet of the stables, if you don’t mind.”

Stiles nodded. “In that case, I thank you for your time and your information, Councillor. You have given me much to think about.”

Morrell dipped her head in a shallow bow, and then Stiles closed the carriage door firmly behind himself. He took the steps up to the castle entrance two at a time, too lost in his thoughts to pay any mind to the discomfort in his side.

+++

Derek’s mood was foul as he made his way toward Cora’s quarters. He’d attempted to check in on the prince after the farewell ceremony for Princess Allison, but he’d been turned away by a guard posted outside the Prince’s chambers. Apparently Stiles was working and not to be disturbed by anyone, and the guard had sneered and sent Derek away without even considering informing the prince of his presence.

He was mildly worried about Stiles. All through the farewell ceremony the prince had looked one step away from fainting, his face pale and lined with pain. He’d tried to hide it, of course, and surely most of the nobles paid his quick winces or the slouch of his shoulders little, if any, mind, but Derek had spent too many nights sitting at the prince’s side not to notice. He’d wanted to rush forward and catch Stiles when he’d stumbled on the steps, but Princess Allison had covered the misstep so fluidly that there was no need. Derek had had very little time with the princess during her stay, and, much as he hated to admit it, had harbored a sense of jealousy toward her for her relationship with Stiles. But in that moment, he’d felt gratitude and a sense of shame over his animosity toward her, and had vowed to try to think better of her.

“Enter,” Cora answered as Derek knocked at her door. Derek twisted the handle and shouldered his way through. A servant was brushing Cora’s hair back into neat braids.

“Derek!” She greeted, giving him a smile in the mirror she held. Derek returned her grin tiredly. 

“Cora,” he responded. She was only half-dressed, wearing a dressing gown over her shift as the servant deftly twisted her hair into neat plaits. A gown of deep blue satin was draped over the bed, next to a forest green velvet gown, and Derek tried to avoid creasing either as he settled on the edge of the bed next to them.

“You look to be getting ready for… something. Is there a ball I wasn’t informed of tonight?”

“No, no ball,” she answered after a moment. In the mirror, Derek caught sight of a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “Lady Lydia has invited me out for dinner. She’s been invited to watch some of the finest musicians in the land at an establishment in town, and I’m to go as her guest. I just have to choose a dress to wear first.”

The blush deepened even as Cora ducked her head to hide it. The servant  _ tsked _ and tugged at a strand of hair, pulling her back into place. Derek chuckled at the annoyed glint in her eye.

“Sounds exciting,” Derek mused as he watched. “Lady Lydia is rumored to have fine taste, I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

“It doesn’t matter where we go; we always have a good time,” Cora responded wistfully. Derek grinned.

“So she feels the same then?”

Cora’s reflection scowled at him, but the hostility faded as quickly as it came, replaced by an expression of disappointment. “My feelings for Lady Lydia are… complicated. I care for her deeply, but she’s so hard to read. I don’t know where she stands.”

“Well it couldn’t hurt to ask her,” Derek suggested. Cora scowled at him again and stuck her tongue out.

“Why don’t you take your own advice, and then if it works, I’ll consider trying it out myself.”

“My own advice? To what end?” Derek said with a frown. Cora twisted in her seat to give him a flat look, tugging her hair free from the servant’s hands.

“Oh stop playing dumb, you brute. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Derek’s frown deepened, his brows knitting together over his eyes. “I assure you, I do not.”

Cora glared at him for a long moment before sitting up and waving the servant away. As soon as the door closed behind her, Cora turned again to face him fully.

“So you think the rest of us are blind, huh? That we don’t see what’s happening directly under our noses?”

Derek made a noncommittal noise and crossed his arms over his chest. Cora huffed.

“I’m talking about you and the prince, you big dummy.”

Derek’s eyes went wide and he felt as if he’d been socked in the stomach. All the air left his lungs in a sudden, involuntary exhale. He sputtered, trying to come up with the words to refute her, but any composure he’d had was gone.

“What - I don’t, that is, it’s totally  _ baseless _ -”

“Derek,” Cora said, interrupting him, “we’re  _ not _ blind. Everyone can see the way you two hover around each other, like you’re both too scared to ask the other to dance, or something.”

“I’m not  _ scared _ ,” Derek said angrily. He still felt a bit out of sorts, blindsided by his sister’s discernment. “It just isn’t my place. Besides, we’re only friends.”

“Well I would love to be  _ friends _ with Lydia the way you’re  _ friends _ with Prince Stiles,” Cora said teasingly. “Honestly, Derek, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not the gaze of someone who wishes to remain only friends.”

“I would just be getting in the way of his courting,” Derek insisted.

Cora sighed and slumped in her chair as she gazed at him, then rose and crossed the room to sit next to him on the bed.

“I don’t think the prince is particularly interested in continued courting, brother. Everyone knows he was only humoring his father with the whole sham. He spent, what, a minute courting me? And even less time with Lydia? And then there’s Princess Allison, who left today as a mere  _ friend _ , and other suitors who left the capitol weeks ago.”

“That doesn’t mean I should stand in the way of others that will come-”

“And why shouldn’t you? What is this about, Derek? It’s been years since Lady Paige-”

“I’d rather you didn’t bring her into this, thank you,” Derek replied angrily.

Cora reached out and took his hand, holding it between both of hers. “I only wish to see you happy, Derek. You may not have loved her, but Paige at least made you laugh. In a way I’ve only since seen when you’ve been with the prince.”

Derek was contemplative for a long moment. Paige had been young, they both had been, and it was their fathers who’d worked to arrange their betrothal. The Krasikevas were a powerful family in Treskellia, and the joining of their two houses would have united the north in an unprecedented way. But instead illness had struck her and her house, and she’d succumbed to her disease only a fortnight before they were due to wed.

“Lady Paige had a beautiful soul. I did greatly enjoy our time together, and I would have grown to love her with time.” He could hear the sadness in his own voice, thick and melancholic, resonating with his already sour mood. Cora squeezed his hand.

“I know you would have Derek, but you’ll love again. Perhaps you already do.”

Her words stuck something in him, something he’d been trying ceaselessly to bury. Did he love Stiles? Was that the word for how he felt? It seemed too enormous, too real to be true. Instead of dwelling on it, he changed the subject.

“Stiles reminds me of Paige, sometimes. She was so clever, and just as whip-smart as he is, just as mischievous. She always had some sharp word just on the tip of her tongue, ready to be unleashed on whatever poor sod bumbled across her path. More often than not, that sod was me.”

“She was at that,” Cora agreed, squeezing his hand again. “The world is a dimmer place without her light.” She paused for a moment and looked up at him cautiously. Derek saw the trepidation in her gaze as she continued. “Prince Stiles is being pushed by his father to choose a suitor and formally declare his betrothal. If you have feelings for him, then you  _ must _ tell him before that happens Derek. And we’re to leave for home in just a few weeks.”

“I know, I know,” Derek said, standing. He crossed to a window and gazed down over the town and countryside laid out below. He’d been dreading the mid-Spring festival. It started in only a week’s time, and they’d be leaving the morning after the final day of it. Treskellia was a long journey even with good weather, and their mother was expecting them home for her birthday celebrations. The knowledge that he’d be leaving the capitol, leaving Stiles, in so short a time had been looming over Derek, robbing him of sleep and stealing his good humor during the day whenever it crossed his mind. 

Derek looked down at his hands and balled them into fists. His chest felt tight with too much unexpressed emotion. He could feel the tension of the day building up inside him, and dwelling on his upcoming departure only exacerbated the feeling. He needed a sword.

“Well,” he said, turning from the window. “I suppose I should be on my way. I wouldn’t want to delay your meeting with Lady Lydia.”

Cora frowned at him, momentarily hurt by his dismissal. She sighed and took a deep breath as she stood, turning to look over the gowns she’d laid out.

“I suppose you’re right,” she murmured.

Derek crossed the room and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll think about what you said,” he said quietly. “And I’ll send the servant back in on my way out.”

Cora gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Derek.”

Derek stopped when he reached the door, holding it open as he stood under its archway to look back toward Cora. She was scowling down at the dresses laid out before her, eyeing them critically. “Oh,” Derek said, catching her attention. “Go with the blue one. It better compliments your complexion.”

Cora grinned at him and reached down to smooth her hand over the silky fabric of the gown. “It certainly does, doesn’t it?”

The training yard was at the back of the castle, just outside the barracks. Derek stopped by his own rooms on the way and changed from his formal doublet into a loose linen shirt. His squire Boyd helped him don his armor over it, cinching it tightly around his form, the he continued onward with Boyd at his heels. It was pushing midday, the sun just beginning to sink toward the far horizon, and few soldiers were in the yard when he finally stepped into it.

He was met by a few shouted greetings and jeers that he returned with less energy than he felt. Two young knights, already sweating through their own armor, paused in their mutual assault and approached him. Despite their armor, Derek recognized them as his current training partners, Sirs Mason and Liam. 

“Back for more, eh?” One of them shouted from across the yard.

Derek grinned as he pulled on his helm, slamming the visor down over his face with a clang. “Beating you two into the ground never gets old,” he responded. The two of them howled as they sprung forward, sprinting at him with their blunted training swords.

Derek could hear his own heartbeat rushing through his ears as he waited for them to approach. He drew his sword from where it hung at his side as his breath rattled against the inside of his visor. Their footsteps grew closer, closer still, and then-

The sword hummed as it sliced through the air past Derek’s face. He dodged under it at the last second, pivoted, then struck upward with his own sword.It slammed into Sir Mason’s shield, sending up splinters even with its blunted edge. The other man backpedaled, arms wheeling as he fought to regain his balance. The hair at the back of Derek’s neck stood on end and he twisted just in time to avoid a wide downward strike from Sir Liam behind him.

He twisted on his heel and kicked out, catching the other knight by surprise square in his chest, and sending him back into the dust as he toppled over. Derek whirled, prepared for Sir Mason’s next attack. He parried, parried again, then dodged under the blade once more as he surged forward. He slammed the flat of his blade into Mason’s chest, then again under his outstretched arm as the man made to defend himself, and a third time over the head. The knight crumpled with a cry of pain, dropping his sword and grabbing at his ringing head.

Sir Liam recovered and lunged at him, but he overextended himself as he pushed past his fallen comrade. Derek knocked the incoming blow away, then struck, twisted around, and struck again. Liam struggled to keep up. Through the slit in his visor, Derek could see his eyes darting this way and that as he sought any means of gaining ground, but Derek gave him no means. The other man swung toward him, but Derek brushed the blow aside and rushed him, shoving his shoulder into him and knocking him onto his back. Derek sucked in a trembling breath, then leveled his sword down at the man’s throat.

Sir Liam lifted a hand a raised his visor. “I concede,” he said breathlessly, his chest heaving. Derek smirked and sheathed his sword, then reached down and offered his hand. The other man took it gratefully, and Derek helped him to his feet.

“You need to watch your footwork. If you’d had your feet more soundly placed, I wouldn’t have been able to knock you down so easily.”

The other knight nodded, looking glum. “I know, Captain Finstock says the same thing.”

“And you,” Derek said, turning to face Sir Mason as Liam helped him to his feet, “need more patience. You fight with your emotions on your sleeve, and it will be your undoing.”

From the other side of the courtyard, the languid sound of a slow clap caught Derek’s attention. He looked over and saw Sir Scott looking somehow impressed and glum all at once. Derek clapped the other knights on their shoulders and said his farewell, then ambled over toward his friend as he removed his helm and tossed his shield aside. His heart was still racing, and a bead of sweat rolled from his brow. He felt, finally, some of the tension drain away.

“Sir Scott,” he greeted, “come for a rematch?”

Scott shrugged and leaned against a fencepost. “I must admit I’m considering it. Someone needs to knock some sense into me.”

Derek frown and wiped sweat from his face. “What’s wrong?” 

Scott shrugged again and looked down at his boots. “It’s nothing. It’s just…”

He trailed off, occupying himself with rolling a pebble around with his toe before kicking it across the yard. Derek waited him out patiently.

“It’s the princess. Princess Allison. She left today.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “I know, I was there,” he replied easily. He’d been one of countless nobles lined up along the grand staircase, sweating through his quilted tunic under the blazing midday sun. The princess had looked radiant in her swirling gown, but his attention had been more keenly focused on his favorite prince.

Scott turned and crossed his arms atop the fence to rest his chin on. He watched the horses grazing outside the stables beyond for a long moment.

“I know it’s probably inappropriate, but Derek, I think I might love her.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. Of all the things that could have come out of Scott’s mouth, that was not what Derek expected. 

“Oh?” He asked after a moment. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly for her. Do you even truly know her?”

Scott had waxed poetic about Princess Allison on a number of occasions, but Derek had thought his admiration was only from afar. To be in love, however, required more of a relationship than Derek realized they had.

“I’d like to think so,” Scott answered after a long pause. “Like I said, I know it’s not exactly appropriate, what with her being here to court Stiles and all, but we’d been meeting secretly ever since the night we first danced together. I don’t know what it is, Derek, but we had a connection that felt so true and right. We talked about anything, everything. Except for the inevitable end of it all.”

Sympathy for his friend washed over Derek, as well as a kind of empathy for his situation. It was not entirely dissimilar to his own relationship with the prince. Cora’s words rose in the back of his mind and he tried to shut them out. He lifted a hand and dropped it onto Scott’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry you’re feeling this way, Scott, but the relationship doesn’t have to end here. You can always write to her, you know.”

“I promised her I would,” Scott replied with a shrug, “but everyone knows nothing gets across the Silver Mountains. Besides, what hope could a simple knight have of winning the hand of a foreign monarch-to-be?”

Scott sucked in a long breath, shaking his head as if to clear away his darkened thoughts. “But enough of my dreary love life. What of yours? Boyd tells me Princess Katherine paid you a visit not too long ago.”

His expression lifted as he turned his attention more fully toward Derek, while Derek found himself grimacing. His evening with Katherine was not one he cared to remember, and he told Sir Scott as much. Scott grinned conspiratorially.

“So maybe we’re not cut out for Argentan royalty, but what of Beacon royalty?” He asked with an lopsided smirk. Derek frowned and looked down at his hands. He could feel the tips of his ears turning red and distracted himself with removing the dirt under his fingernails. 

“How do you mean?” He asked after a moment. When he glanced up to meet Scott’s eyes, they were gleaming devilishly. 

“Oh spare me this act of coyness, Derek. The whole castle is abuzz with talk of your late night trysts with the prince,” he replied casually.

Derek felt his whole face flame with embarrassment at his words. First Cora, now Scott? Indignation warred with his self-consciousness. “They are  _ not _ trysts!” he defended angrily. “The prince invites me to join him for dinner, I oblige. We talk and play chess and then I leave. There is nothing more to it than that.”

Scott scoffed and turned his attention back to the grazing horses. “Well don’t let him hear you say that. He talks of you as if you hung the moon itself in the sky.”

Derek stopped short at that. “He… he talks of me?”

“Oh, incessantly,” Scott said with a small wave of his hand. “It’s actually sort of annoying, honestly.” He gave Derek a gentle grin. 

It was Derek’s turn to stare down at his boots. “I can see how the amount of time we spend together could lead someone to wrongly assume the nature of our relationship,” he said begrudgingly, “but that doesn’t mean those rumors are true.”

Scott raised an eyebrow but declined to push him further. “Is that so?” He asked flatly. “Well, I have to say I’m a bit disappointed. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Stiles so happy.”

Derek scoffed. “What is there to be happy about? He was just attacked in his own home, and-”

“Has been away fighting endless wars for the last three years, believe me, I know. I was there for all of them, don’t forget. I’ve been by his side more than anyone else alive these last few years, and I speak truly when I say you make him happy. I won’t push any further than that.”

Scott turned away and stared out over the grazing horses and the stableboys who flitted between them. After a time, he sighed heavily and looked back up to Derek.

“I can’t stand all this heartbreak. What do you say we head into the city and find a tavern to drown our sorrows in?”

Derek initially thought to refuse. The prince could call on him at any time, and he wanted to be available to see him, just to set his mind at ease after worrying over his health all day. But then he thought back to the guard who’d sent him away with a laugh, and found himself agreeing to go.

“Excellent,” Scott said, with a hint of his boyish nature pushing through his melancholy for the first time. “But you should bathe first, you smell like you’ve been pummelling people into the dirt all day.”

He pushed away from the fence and skipped across the yard, and Derek whirled to shout at him, “It wasn’t all day!”

Scott only laughed and tossed a wave over his shoulder. Derek sighed and looked down at his feet. And he’d only  _ just _ donned his armor.

+++

Stiles’s eyes burned. The low, flickering candlelight illuminated the room only faintly, and he’d found himself squinting down at his maps and atlases with increasing frustration as the night wore on. He was in his solar, where he’d been holed up for most of the day, trying to tease some pattern from the data splayed out around him.

Maps hung across every wall of his study, tacked up over the tapestries and decor. They showed the entirety of the north, as well as various sections of Beacon’s other borders. Every flat surface hosted stacks of scouting reports, intelligence briefings, sketches, testimonies, books of history and lineages, and everything else he could get his hands on to better understand his enemies. From his seamstress, Stiles had nicked a roll of red twine, and he used it to connect points of interest to each other, to tie written scouting reports to physical locations on his maps, and to trace the movements of his enemies.

Since his conversation with Councillor Morrell, a deep sense of foreboding had plagued Stiles. For weeks now he’d been preoccupied with visiting dignitaries, feasts, his courtships, and his injury, and he felt he’d failed to make any headway toward uncovering the motive of his elusive adversary. He’d been hard-pressed to convince the council there even  _ was _ one. But Morrell had filled in a few of the gaps, and though he lacked any firm evidence, Stiles felt he’d gained a better understanding of the situation.

He was glaring down at a book of trade receipts while he sipped at some wine when a knock at the door broke his concentration. He scowled down at the ledger and leaned back in his chair. He’d distinctly told his guards to allow  _ no one _ to distract him as he puzzled over his mystery. Stiles set his wine glass aside, scrubbed his fingertips over his eyes, and sighed.

“Enter,” he barked.

The door opened and his father stepped in the room. Stiles cursed under his breath and rose, bowing shallowly before returning to his chair. 

“Good evening, father,” he said tersely.

The king nodded back and returned the greeting, then strode slowly around the room with his hands clasped behind his back to observe his son’s work. His keen eyes roamed the tangled web of twine that stretched between maps and ledgers, pausing here and there to inspect a report here, an atlas there.

“It seems you’ve been hard at work. And here I thought you were just shirking your responsibilities.”

“I haven’t been shirking anything,” Stiles huffed back.

“That’s not what our guests have been telling me. Several dropped by before they left the city for their homesteads, though all were turned away by your guards. They happened to mention this to me as I wished them well on their journeys home.”

“I’ve had rather more important things to worry about than petty farewells to nobles I’ve hardly ever spoken to.”

“More important things than maintaining the relationships you’ll need as future king?” His father asked mildly, his eyebrow raised. “Such as?”

“Such as Lord Myers’s assassination, and my attack, and the endless northern wars, and the shadowed enemy that ties them all together!”

Stiles tossed his ledger onto his desk and stood abruptly, standing to face his father. 

“Why didn’t you tell me Myers was dead?”

His father turned away from the map he was inspecting and fixed Stiles with a level look. “Because you needed to heal and recuperate from your ordeal. I discussed it with Lady Melissa, and we agreed that telling you would only aggravate your condition. You would have been out of bed and puzzling through this-” he gestured vaguely at the cluttered room around them, “-mess in such a way mere days after you almost died, through sheer force of will. I felt your recovery was more important.”

“What’s most important is the safety of the country!” Stiles retorted. The king gave him a tired look and moved closer.

“That may be true, and when you are king you may run the country any way you wish. But for myself, the most important thing is the safety of my family. The country ranks just below that.”

Guilt roiled up in the pit of Stiles’s stomach and he grimaced at his words. “I did not mean to speak out of place, father,” he said apologetically.

His father’s expression softened. “Nor have you, my son. But why don’t you talk me through this and make some sense of it to me,” he said, gesturing around the room again. Stiles nodded and pulled his father to a specific portion of the largest map. It outlined the northern territories in great detail.

“It all started in the north. There was a famine about five years ago, caused by a severe drought. It wreaked havoc on the northern farming community, of which every treasonous lord was a part of at some point.”

“Yes,” the king said thoughtfully. “I remember. We sent caravans of supplies and gold to see them through the winter, but some of the northern leaders were unimpressed with the gesture and thought we should’ve sent more. They claimed they never received their allocated relief, and accused us of lying about having sent it at all.”

“That’s because I don’t believe they ever did receive them,” Stiles explained. He next drew his father over to a thick tome filled with trade logs. “These are all written and signed by the hand of Lord Harris, one-time Councillor of Trade, and current ambassador to Argenta. According to his records, the farming community was sufficiently supplied to last through the famine. But tell me, father, how much do you know of Ambassador Harris? How often do you hear from him?”

The king frowned as he flipped through a few pages. “Less often than I’d like, to be frank. It’s hard to get anything through the Silver Mountains, but we receive ravens from him from time to time. He hardly tells us anything of note, however. The council has been generally unimpressed with his contributions. As for his character, well, he never struck me as a particularly honorable man, though he performed his duties as councillor satisfactorily.”

“How did he come to be ambassador to Argenta?” Stiles asked, curious.

“Oh, he pushed for it. We got the raven from Argenta requesting an exchange of ambassadors to begin rebuilding the relationship between our lands. We discussed the matter at a small council meeting, and Harris was adamant that he was the man for the job. No one else wanted it, so it seemed prudent to give the position to someone who did.”

“I see,” Stiles said, drumming his fingertips against his lips. “Well that certainly sheds a little light on the next part of this mystery.”

The king gave him a dry look. “Oh, do tell.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and dragged his father to another map tacked up. “Well, given that Harris had ample knowledge of the financial state of the kingdom, he would’ve known the north was weak at the time. I believe he’s been working with - or rather, working  _ for _ \- Argenta since he was councillor here. My biggest question after campaigning in the north was where these northern lords were getting the coin to finance their insurrections. If Harris was being paid by Argentan spies, he would have easily been able to distribute payments to anyone who wanted to rise up against the crown. And if he’d been withholding supplies from them, he’d have known exactly who was angriest with us.”

The king hummed under his breath. “While it certainly sounds plausible, this is a lot of conjecture, my son. And how does it all tie in with your attack?”

“I know, I know,” Stiles said, raising his hands placatingly, “I’m getting there, trust me.” He walked his father over to another document stretched against the wall. This one was his own work, a hastily scratched out timeline of events.

“This is when Harris was appointed Councillor of Trade.  _ This _ is the beginning of the northern famine. Harris became ambassador  _ here _ , and we’ve had little contact with him since. We know the northern rebellions had to have been financed by some outside party, and given Harris’s relationship with Argenta, it seems likely he was funneling coin to the rebels on behalf of the Argentan royal family.”

“So it would seem,” the king replied.

“But  _ why _ ?” Stiles prompted. “That’s what’s been driving me crazy all this time, and I finally think I might have an idea. While Princess Allison was still here, we spoke of our respective countries often. She explained to me that King Gerard is ailing, and is often indisposed, at which point his son, Crown Prince Christopher, Princess Katherine’s brother, takes over day to day affairs for him. I also know from Allison that her father and grandfather are often at odds with how to run Argenta, and that her grandfather holds a grudge against Beacon because mother married you instead of Prince Christopher.”

“That was so many years ago, Stiles, I hardly doubt it’s something King Gerard wants to go to war over.”

“I’m no so sure,” Stiles replied. “It’s not just a paltry tale of spurned love. If mother had married Prince Christopher, our kingdoms would’ve been united. That’s a lot of land and power to be sore over losing. During our first dinner together, Princess Allison confided in me that King Gerard has become paranoid in his old age and has latched on to old grudges. He is intent on keeping his country closed to outsiders, while Prince Christropher would rather open it and reestablish relations with the world at large. I gathered that there exists a bit of a rift in the royal family over this.

“Additionally, Sir Derek has told me of his conversations with Princess Katherine. She seems to believe Beacon is heading toward civil war, and also seems to have a very low opinion of us. What if Princess Katherine and King Gerard are working together to sow discord among our people, behind the backs of Prince Christopher and Princess Allison? It would make a direct attack against our country that much easier in the aftermath, with far less effort on Argenta’s part.

“But that’s not all. Councillor Morrell reached out to me today. Apparently, Princess Allison’s group of soldiers was missing three men when they left the capitol today. Perhaps those missing three are the ones we hung from the battlements after they died trying to kill me. I was hesitant to believe Princess Allison could have had anything to do with the attack, but she was a newcomer to our home and that wouldn’t explain the attackers’ intimate knowledge of the castle. However, it could have been Katherine just as easily. Her father may have sent word that he included assassins in Allison’s retinue; she would only have had to provide them some information before sending them on to do the deed. And, in the aftermath of my attack, it would have been a simple matter to slip into the dungeons and tie up the last loose thread: Lord Myers.”

A long moment of silence passed as Stiles finished his speech in a rush. It all felt so clear to him in that moment. His father, however, looked less convinced.

“So you think Argenta is planning to attack us? Based only on guesswork and thin connections?”

Stiles sighed. “I suppose I do. I couldn’t tell you when, or how, but I have to be honest. I may not have all the pieces of this puzzle, and perhaps the pieces I do have do not fit together as snugly as I’d like. But yes, I think the northern rebellions, the murder of Lord Myers, and my attack are all King Gerard’s doing. I think he wants revenge on us, on our family, and that he wants to make it as painful as possible.”

The king was quiet again. The seconds stretched to minutes as the king wandered around the room, once again inspecting the fruits of Stiles’s investigative labor. Finally, he paused and looked at his son, then down at the floor, his hands once again clasped behind his back.

“I believe you, son. I believe the Argents have a hand in all this, somehow, but without firm proof I cannot bring this to the council yet.”

“But you’re the king!” Stiles exclaimed. “You can do whatever you want!”

His father’s face darkened. “I will not go to war over conjecture and guesswork, Stiles. No king worth his crown would. I will post guards to keep an eye on Princess Katherine’s movements and to monitor her communications, but that is the best I can do until you give me something else to go on.”

Stiles scoffed and sank back into his chair. He reached for his wine and tipped the goblet back, draining it. His head ached, his chest burned, his eyes were tired. All he wanted was to solve this riddle before the Argents could make their next move.

The king pulled up a chair and sat close to him. “Son, I know this is important to you. I understand that it’s been bothering you for quite some time, and you’ve done good work trying to get to the bottom of it.”

“I just want it all to make sense,” Stiles said morosely. 

“I understand, son.” A moment of quiet passed between them.

Stiles swirled the empty goblet in his hand, watching the dregs of wine swish around. “You know,” he said after a few minutes, “it’s been awhile since you asked me about my suitors. When you first came in I thought that’s what you’d be asking about.”

The king gave him a curious look. “Well, I thought you’d already settled on someone to court.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you’ve signed me up for an arranged marriage I know nothing about.”

His father’s brow knit together, confusion evident on his face. “Are you not courting Sir Derek?”

Stiles eyes went wide and he felt his face heat up with embarrassment. “Who told you that?” He exclaimed.

His father looked at him strangely. “Nobody, son. I didn’t need to be told. Even if I hadn’t observed the way you two look at each other, that morning I walked in on you two a while back would have cleared up any confusion. I figured you would bring it to me when you were ready to officially declare your betrothal by asking for his hand.”

Stiles’s mind whirled rapidly, panic and embarrassment warring for dominance over his emotions. He sputtered, not quite sure what to say.  _ Betrothal? To Derek? _ He cleared his throat, grasping for any response.

“Walked in on us? What morning?”

His father raised a brow, looking somewhat amused by his reaction. “It was a few days before Princess Allison departed. Derek must’ve fallen asleep after visiting the night before. I stopped in to check on you and found him slumped over in a chair at your bedside. You two looked as if you’d been holding hands, so naturally I let you be. Though I must say, it’s a bit inappropriate to be sharing quarters before even announcing your engagement,” he added with a wry smile.

Stiles was at a loss for what to say. “W-well that’s not saying much. We fell asleep after sharing some wine. That’s all. Neither of us can be held accountable for what our limbs did while we slept. And he was long gone before I awoke, so obviously the situation perturbed him.”

The king tilted his head back and laughed, though it was gentle and full of warmth. 

“Besides,” Stiles said, continuing, “Sir Derek could never be interested in me in such a way. He has his own rather impressive land holdings, his own title to inherit, as much wealth as the crown - or more. Why would he want anything I can give him?”

His father frowned and gave him a stern look. “You mean to tell me you have not even discussed it with him? By the gods, son, half the court already thinks you two are secretly betrothed already.”

Stiles reddened further. “N-no, father, trust me. Derek could never feel that way about me. To him, I’ll always be an annoying princeling bent on irritating him. He does not see me as a partner, I guarantee it.”

Stiles wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince as he spoke. He felt foolish for having worn his emotions so clearly on his sleeve, but they were based on childish hopes and fanciful daydreams. If Derek had returned his feelings, surely he would have made his own feelings clear by now instead of asking about his suitors so frequently the way he did.

The king leaned forward in his chair and reached out to place his hand on Stiles’s arm. “No, you should trust me on this one, Stiles. No man would willingly spend a night, slumped over in an uncomfortable chair, just to be near you while he slept, if he felt nothing beyond simple friendship toward you.”

Stiles gaped at him. He had hoped, longed for, even, to know Derek might return his feelings, but to be confronted with such a perspective was almost incomprehensible.

His father chuckled again and sat back in his chair. “You know, Duchess Talia has been in touch with me over the last few months her children have been here. She sends her regrets that she is unable to attend the festival, but she did remind me her daughter’s retinue would be due to return home shortly after the festival ends. If you want, officially, to court Sir Derek, I would suggest you find time to speak with him about the matter before he leaves. Privately, of course.”

The king stood from his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He looked around the cluttered room once more, gesturing at it. “You’ve done good work putting these pieces together, son, but don’t let it distract you from your own happiness. But I’ll leave you to consider what we’ve discussed. Have a good evening, and don’t forget you’re due to meet with Councillor Ramsey to finalize plans for the festival tomorrow morning.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss against Stiles’s hair, then turned and made toward the door.

“I won’t,” Stiles said belatedly as the door closed behind him. He sat back in his chair and stared at the walls around him. Suddenly the immediacy of the plot to rip the country apart felt a little distant, overshadowed by his father’s words. 

He stood an poured himself another glass of wine, then left his mess of a study behind and made for the terrace through his bedchamber. The crisp breeze felt nice against his flushed face as he sipped his drink and watched the last of the sunset fade behind the horizon, turning his father’s words over and over in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y’all for the finale!


End file.
